Pretending
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: Begins pre-Blink. Semi-AU. Flack doesn't believe in psychology. At least, until he meets her. F/OC, Live!Aiden, eventual D/L and A/H, SMacky subtext. ON HIATUS.
1. You Know What They Say

**Title: Pretending**  
><strong>Author: Shu of the Wind<strong>  
><strong>Rating: T (for <strong>_**CSI: New York**_**-level violence, romance, and humor.)**

**Disclaimer (applies for all chapters): …if I owned**_**CSI: New York**_**, I'd be tight with Jerry Bruckheimer, who also produced the**_**Pirates of the Caribbean**_**franchise. And if I hung out with JB, that means I'd be all over Johnny Depp. Seeing as I'm not all over Johnny Depp…**

**Warning! OC.**

**Summary: Begins pre-Blink. Flack doesn't believe in psychology. At least, until he meets her. F/OC, Live!Aiden, eventual D/L, SMacky subtext.**

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><p><strong>1.1<strong>

If there's one thing I love about New York, it's the food stands.

The crepe is dripping with Nutella, and some of it lands on my fingers as I take it from the guy behind the counter, trying to work the money out of my wallet to pay him so that Angry Businessman behind me can order his strawberry-mango monstrosity. Down the road, I hear someone shouting about their knish; on the other side of the block I know that there's a pair of hot-dog stands battling it out as to who gets that side of 52nd Street. It's wonderful, and a huge difference from Tucson, where the only food you can buy on the street is a bad Sonoran hot dog or, if you're lucky, Polish sausages at the Tucson Meet Yourself festival.

But that's only once a year. Here, there are food stands everywhere, year-round. You can buy coffee on the street in the middle of the night if you have to.

It's the crepes I'm after, though. I give the crepe man a ten-dollar bill (smeared with Nutella) and let him dump the change in my purse. As I slide away, I can hear Angry Businessman begin an argument with the crepe seller. Apparently they're out of mangos.

"You're not actually eating that thing, are you?" Aiden looks disgusted as I lick the Nutella off my fingertips, like she can't imagine ingesting it. I scowl at her.

"I keep telling you to try it. You just have something against hazelnuts."

"I have something against nuts, sure," she says, with a raised-eyebrow look in my direction that makes me want to kick her. "You realize that you could probably just steal Simon's Ben and Jerry's out of the back of the freezer and get your kicks that way? It'd be easier. And probably more sanitary."

"I'm not taking Simon's ice cream. He'd kill me with his kicked puppy-dog eyes. You know that." The crepe melts in my mouth, just the way it's supposed to, and I swallow before continuing. "Besides, crepes are _warm_. That's the whole point."

Aiden rolls her eyes towards the sky, as if she's asking for guidance, and tucks her burrito into her purse, still wrapped. "Whatever."

I waggle my eyebrows at her before stepping off the curb, heading east. "Aw, come on. You know you want one."

"I said _whatever,_Bridge." She nudges my shoulder, laughing. "You can keep your insult to all foodstuffs, and I can promise you, I'm never gonna try and steal it from you."

"Your loss." I grin, and knock her back. It's been a long time since Aiden and I have been able to spend time together. I've missed her. Ever since she found her own apartment, she's been so wrapped up in work that she hasn't been able to visit her family, let alone spend time with her old college roommate. Since graduation, I've seen her a grand total of maybe five times. We email a lot, but still, it's not the same at all.

I've missed Aiden. We'd taken the same criminalistics course as sophomores, and afterwards she and her friends had effectively adopted me, all the way through school and into the force. Even after I'd swerved off of criminalistics and into psychology, we'd had too much in common to break the friendship. It had infuriated my parents, even more than my decision to head for CUNY instead of Harvard, but by that point I was beyond caring what they thought of me. I haven't spoken to them in months.

"How are the brats?" she asks, flipping off a taxicab that swerves too close to us for comfort. Aiden was born in Brooklyn, and feels more comfortable with that sort of thing than I do. Mostly I just swear under my breath and try not to scrape myself up too badly as I dodge. "You said you had a new kid showing up sometimes."

"Matt." An image of her looms in my mind's eye – only fourteen, but easily a head taller than I am, rail skinny, with tattoos up and down her arms and fresh needle tracks between her toes. She comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when she isn't sleeping in an alley somewhere. "I think she's a runaway. I know she's an addict. She doesn't talk much, though. If I try to help her, she looks like she's gonna punch me."

"So you kick the crap out of her until she listens to you." She shrugs. "It's not that hard, Bridge."

"That's kinda illegal, but sure."

"Hey, I'd let you get away with it."

I scowl at her. "Funny."

It's Aiden's day off – no case – and I have time to kill, so we head for Central Park. What was it that one book said about the city? _Basically, if you put a fence around New York City, you'd have the world's biggest nontraveling circus_. Truer words. Even at two o'clock on a Monday, the park is stuffed full. We pass a group of kids in expensive school uniforms traipsing along the benches, laughing and shoving each other. Across the way, a fleet of joggers tromps down one of the paths. There's a woman dressed in a distinctly Victorian outfit, walking her Great Dane and posing for tourists with heavy cameras and _I Heart New York_ T-shirts. Aiden snorts as we pass her; the woman snaps around, lifting her walking stick, but thinks better of it at the sight of Aiden's NYPD T-shirt. It makes me wish I hadn't moved back to Tucson for that year. TPD just…isn't as classy. It sounds like a brand of toilet paper.

"What is it with people putting big dogs in tiny apartments?" She cracks her knuckles, not threateningly, but out of habit. "It sucks."

"You don't know she has a tiny apartment." Of course, it's far more likely than a loft on Park Avenue, and we both know it. "At least it's better than walking a sewer rat." I shrug, and wipe my fingers clean on the napkin I snitched from the crepe stand. "I still think that thing was a rat, by the way."

"It was a hairless dog, so get over it." She drops down on the bench beside me, laces her fingers behind her head, and leans back, stretching her legs out over the path. A bicyclist swerves to avoid her, and she swears loudly. "Oi, watch it, _loco_!"

"I swear, if you keep picking up Spanish, people are gonna mistake you for a _chica_." I waggle my eyebrows. "_Tu eres loca, no?_"

"Girl, you're whiter than ice cream, so don't pull that on me." Aiden smirks, and then draws her legs under the bench again. "It's been so long since I just had a chance to sit and do nothing. You have no idea."

"You're the one who joined the NYPD right out of school." I crook my fingers. "_Don't worry, Bridge, it's what I wanna do_. And now you barely have time to go out for a drink after work, let alone spend time with friends."

"It's just…" She waves her hand. "It's New York, whaddaya expect? Lots of cases means little time for socializing. Besides, it's not like you can talk. You're always stuck with the kids."

"I live in the Safe House, Aiden. Of course I'm always stuck with the kids." We called it the Safe House, though there was probably some big, official title for it, because that was what we tried to make it – safe for the runaways and the kids that had no place else to go. The best way to describe it is a Big Brothers, Big Sisters, only it's more of an aid station than anything else. Since David's out of town, that leaves me and Simon, and Simon's a psychology intern from Colombia. We'd probably hire him if he wanted to join us after he graduates, but until then, he's an unpaid lackey.

"_Don't worry, Aiden, it's what I want to do_," she mimics, and grins. "Living in the house of eternal adolescence. You asked for it, anyway."

"Shut up."

By the time she gets a call from Danny – who, she tells me, is almost thirty, single, and very into redheads (I nudge her away from this train of thought) – it's nearly nine, and we've migrated to Tully's, a bar in Greenwich Village. It's pretty much a neighborhood secret; in the last six months, we've maybe had one newcomer show up, and they skedaddled right after they discovered that it's run by an ex-Mafioso. (Or so Connor claims; it might have just been a story to impress tourists.)

"Hey, so Flack's gonna pick me up –" I bob my head, as though I know who this person is, because Aiden looks so excited, "– and we're gonna head to that cop bar over on 42nd. You could come if you want?"

"Is it an option?"

"For once, yes." Aiden grins. "I mean, if you tell your kids that you spent the evening with a bunch of cops, it might make them less eager to graffiti the walls."

"Tempting." My phone buzzes, and I flip it open. Simon, asking where I am. I get the feeling he's a little frazzled; usually he doesn't text me if I'm out. "I'm gonna have to rain check though. I have to get back to the Safe House."

Before she can say much else – because I know if she had a chance to open her mouth, I'd be tagging along to the cop bar and probably never getting back to the Safe House tonight, which is definitely not a go – I collect my things and kiss her cheek. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"It's my birthday next Friday. We're having a thing. You should come."

"I'll see if I can get away."

"I'll email you."

"Right," I say, and vanish out the door.

The Safe House is only a couple of blocks away from Tully's, and it's quiet when I finally unlock the back door and slide into the kitchen. Everyone's either in the game room or showering or asleep, though there's evidence on the table that Willow and Wilder are here; nobody else inhales all the cereal and leaves the boxes on the counter except the twins. Simon sticks his head in as I dump my purse on the counter, and lets out an anxious breath.

"Oh, thank God."

"Thank me for remembering to keep my phone on." I send him a smile that he doesn't return. "What's up? Anything wrong?"

"We have a parent in the waiting room."

I hiss. "Whose?"

"Minzy's." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "I've convinced them to stay there, thankfully, but Minzy should be back any minute and she comes through the front door."

"We can't legally keep them away from each other, Simon." Minzy's seventeen; she's not her own person yet. David and I each operate as advocates for the kids who come into the Safe House, but if the cops show up I don't know if we can stop her parents taking her away.

"I know." But he looks torn, and I can understand why. If her parents are looking for her, then it's finally clear – Minzy's a runaway. We've never been sure – she never talks about it – but it's the only explanation that makes sense. She showed up about a year ago looking for somewhere to sleep, and pretty much never left, working as a volunteer and basically cleaning up after the other kids. She's never explained why she appeared in the first place, but she also never talks about her parents; I thought she was mainly just keeping away from a family she might not want to stay near, but this…

This could be bad.

"Head Minzy off." I grab my nametag from the wall, settling the lanyard around my neck. "I'll talk to them, see what's going on."

Minzy's from Boston, and her accent has dulled after a couple of years of living in the city. Her mother and father, though, are still clearly from Southie. They both stand, the mother wringing her hands; her eyes are rimmed red. _Oh, great_.

It's the father who takes the lead though, stepping in front of his wife. He's about a foot taller than I am, and he's clearly aware that he could probably snap me over his knee if he tried. "You're the one in charge?"

"I'm Bridget Carter." I hold my hand out to him. The mother peeps at me around his shoulder. "I'm in charge until David gets back, yes."

I hear the back door slam. Simon's going around.

"Graham Lockyer." He doesn't shake my hand. Instead, he pulls a photograph from the envelope he's holding, and holds it out to me. It's a few years old, but it's definitely Minzy – minus the nose ring and the dyed hair, of course. "Have you seen this girl?"

"I've seen her around," I say, carefully. Legally, there's nothing I can do to keep Minzy away from her parents, or vice versa, but I'm not going to be definite about her living here, either. We're a 501(c)3, not a government institution; if he accuses us of harboring runaways, we could be in serious trouble. It's illegal, and it's in the manual we hand out to every kid who comes through here, explaining what the Safe House is, what we do, who we can help. It's a rulebook and a warning guide, and it means that runaways keep their mouths shut.

Sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes it's not. The man in front of me – scrubbed, well shaven, his eyes flat as slate – might be from the latter. He looks nothing like Minzy, I think, looking at him. Minzy's mother is Korean, and a near-copy of her daughter; either Minzy doesn't take after her father, or they're not related. Personally, I'm leaning towards the latter.

His mouth tightens. "We need to see her."

I bite my tongue to keep myself from swearing. "Sir, this is a home for the teenage homeless. Kids come here when they have no other resources. Sometimes they just show up for a shower at the beginning of the week; sometimes they stay for a couple of days and then we never see them again. Your daughter may not even be here right now."

The woman flinches at the word _daughter_, as though she's been struck, and turns to stare at the wall. There's a photograph of the Safe House there, from when it was first founded twenty years ago; David was one of the first kids to stay here. It looks a lot older now. I eye her, and wonder why she's so quiet.

"Look, Ms…. Whoever you are." His eyes sweep me from top to toe. "If my stepdaughter is in this building, we're going to see her. If she's not, we'll wait until she comes back. But either way, you're not keeping us away from her."

He steps forward. I step in front of him, and wonder if I'll have to kick him. "Sir, I'm sorry. Beyond the lobby is a restricted area. Only the advocates and the kids are allowed past the front desk."

His mouth twists, and I see his fists clench. "You have no _right_ –"

"If Minzy is staying here, in _my_facility, I have every right to advocate for her." He meets my gaze, and his eyes narrow. "So I'm going to have to ask you to sit and wait while I check to see if she's here, and, if she is, whether or not she wants to talk to you."

He looks about ready to punch me. "If I have to call the police, I will."

"I can dial for you if you like."

Mr. Lockyer's ready to have an aneurysm. The back door shuts, and the stairs creak. Minzy's upstairs. I let myself relax a little, and step away from him, slanting my eyes at Mrs. Lockyer. Simon appears in the doorway.

"Simon's an intern here." He bobs his head, adjusting his glasses. "If you want anything, tea, coffee, he can get it for you while I talk to Minzy. But I can't guarantee she'll want to see you."

I turn away before he can argue, and vanish with Simon into the kitchen. He's almost green, and I fight the urge to give him a basin. Simon gets nervous easily, and even though I've seen him turn almost emerald multiple times since he became an intern six months ago, I've never seen him vomit. Thankfully.

"She knows," he says, before I ask. "She's locked herself in her room."

"Fabulous." I rub the end of my nose until my finger goes hot. Then I dive for the freezer. There's a box of cookies in there that I keep for emergency cravings, but right now, the familiarity might be the only thing that will get me in to talk to Minzy. "I'll go talk to her. Make them coffee or something. And make sure Francesca doesn't come in drunk and start flirting with Mr. Lockyer. That'd make everybody's night."

Simon takes a breath. "Right."

Minzy's room is the last one on the right. Since she's been here for so long, and stays so often – almost every day of the week – she usually leaves her door open during the night, in case some of the younger kids have questions or concerns that they don't want to take to me or David. Now, her door's locked; she has a drawing of an anime character taped to it. I knock.

"Minzy, it's me."

"Go away." It's almost silent, but the walls are paper thin; it sounds like her face is muffled in her pillow. Frankly, I'm surprised she's not packing her bags; maybe she already has a backpack with necessities ready to go for when her parents leave.

"Sweetie, you don't have to see them if you don't want to. I just wanna talk to you." I knock again. "I bring Girl Scout cookies."

There's a hiccup, as though she's stifling a laugh. Then the lock clicks, and I hide a smile. Thin Mints work every time.

She's touched up her dye job. It's a veritable explosion of color on her head; there's a streak of almost every color of the rainbow mixed in with her naturally black hair. There are three piercing in her right ear, four in her left, and a stud in her nose rather than the usual ring; you can see how skinny she us under the wife-beater and short-shorts that she usually sleeps in. Her eyes are almost as red as her mother's, and her mascara's all runny; she's been crying.

I hold up the cookies. "Peace offering?"

"It's not your fault," she says, but takes the box of cookies and lets me in.

I'm up until about two in the morning acting as liaison between Minzy and her parents, and by the time we're done, we've finished off the box of Thin Mints as well as the Tagalongs I had stashed in the very back of the pantry, behind the cans of cat food. Other than the freezer, it's the safest place to hide them: nobody ever touches the cat food except for me when I'm feeding the alley cat.

Minzy isn't going to meet with her parents until she's certain that they're not going to take her home, which basically means we're at an impasse. I offer multiple times to act as her advocate, and to call some of my friends (i.e. Aiden) who will see things her way and make sure they didn't take her out of the Safe House, but she just keeps shaking her head, hiding her shaking hands by closing them into fists and keeping her eyes fixed on the poster on the back of her door. Finally, I stop talking about it, and we end up chatting about bad daytime TV until she's calm enough to go to sleep and I can go downstairs and dismiss her parents until visiting hours tomorrow.

I have to report her as a runaway to the police, but for now, I won't. It's illegal, but at two in the morning, I don't really give a damn.

The look on Mr. Lockyer's face says that we haven't heard the end of this, but Mrs. Lockyer pulls him out the door before he can say anything. Simon's called them a taxi. I'm surprised he managed to find one so late, but at least I don't have to worry about Mr. and Mrs. Lockyer getting mugged on their way back to their hotel.

I send Simon home the next morning with strict instructions not to come back until he's caught up on sleep. He salutes me with a grin and vanishes in the direction of the subway, and I brew coffee. Simon may get to sleep, but I don't. I'm the only one on duty until David gets back – our volunteers have been dropping like flies.

Aiden finds me in the laundry room at about two in the afternoon, spinning the dryer over and over again in an attempt to get the lint off of my favorite shirt. The danger of living with teenagers is that you eventually start to dress like them; it's a band T-shirt from a concert I went to a couple of months ago, and it's turned into the best comfort shirt I could possibly find. The cloth's worn thin and soft from too many washings.

I don't bother asking how she managed to get by the front desk. I'm the one who's supposed to be staffing it, after all. "Aiden, hey."

"Hey." She sticks her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans, trying to hide a frown. "You okay? You look whacked."

"Up late." I shrug, and pull my shirt out of the dryer, yanking it on over my tank top. "What's up?"

Thankfully she's come in plainclothes; I think if she'd shown up in one of her cop outfits, with the sharp creases and business coats and the badge attached to her waist, half the kids in the living room wouldn't have dared to come back. "We had a call about you this morning."

"Brilliant. I love it when parents complain." I fold a pair of my old jeans, which somehow keep finding their way into Minzy's closet, and set them in the laundry basket. "The Lockyers?"

She nods. "Look, when I heard it was about the Safe House, I told Captain Gerrard that I'd check it out. But there've been grumbles about this place for years, Bridge."

"Look, Aiden, I've checked the law. As long as those kids under my roof, I'm their appointed advocate." Minzy being a runaway changes things. Both Aiden and I know it. I shift gears. "Minzy's seventeen – if she doesn't want to see her parents, then she's old enough to be making her own decision about it. It's difficult for the court to force a kid who's old enough to be driving to see her family."

"You know I know that." Her voice is tight, and immediately I feel bad. Sometimes I forget that Aiden was in foster care for two years when she was a teenager. "I just think you could be a little less confrontational. That's all."

I bite my tongue, and hand her the end of a sheet. She takes it, and we fold it together. "Sorry. It just…Minzy's been here for a year. I trust her. If she doesn't want to see her parents, it's for a good reason."

"You want me to look into his record?"

The look in her eye is completely serious. I waver. "I'd appreciate it. Try Minzy's – Minette's – hospital records too. I know it's kind of a waste of time, but –"

"Hey, you'll owe me after this one." She grins. "And I already have a way for you to pay me back."

"Come to your birthday 'celebration' on Friday?" I crook my fingers, and toss the sheet into the basket as well. "If you try to pair me off with anybody, I'm out, okay? I don't have time to date right now."

"No. Well, yes. If you want. And you always have time to date."

"And how long have you been single, Aiden?"

She ignores me. "Actually, I've been trying to find a psychologist for a few days now. I don't know why I didn't think of you before. Guess I forgot you were trained."

"I'm not liking where this is going."

"Look, I wouldn't ask you, but everyone else we know has a full plate. I guess the Park Ave families pay more."

"How do you know I have time?"

"I know you have a little more time than, say," she waves a business card in my direction. "Dr. Yuri Makov, whose newest clients are of the anorexic supermodel variety."

"And plus you can probably get my work for free."

Aiden shrugs. "We'd pay you full price. This case is right up your alley, too. Besides, you keep saying you miss clinical psychology."

"I'm _doing_ clinical psychology."

"No, you're babysitting a bunch of runaways and dealing with parents who should probably be either arrested or kicked in the ass. Or both."

I snap out another pair of jeans, not looking at her. Aiden sighs and sets her hip against the dryer, and I fight the urge to push the on button. "Look, Bridge, it'd be a huge favor. Just this one time, all right? For old times' sake."

"Hey, Bridget." It's Minzy, paused on the threshold, her eyes flicking from me to Aiden and back again, warily. It looks like she's just rolled out of bed; at least I know where my Tweety Bird pajama pants have gone. She holds out her arms. "I can help you take the laundry upstairs if you want?"

"So you can steal my shirts?"

She grins, but takes the laundry anyway and shuts the door behind her. Aiden shoots me a look.

"That her?"

I nod. Aiden worries her lip between her teeth, and then crosses her arms over her chest.

"Look. I can pull up the hospital records without a hitch. Shouldn't be too hard, I've already been assigned to check into it anyway. But it'd be a really huge help if you work this other case. I mean, it shouldn't take that long. And I remember how excited you used to get when you took that criminal psychology class. You were good." She reaches out, and touches my shoulder. "It's just one time, Bridge. Please."

"Fine." I grab the other laundry basket, and set it on my hip. "Fine. But this is the only time. Okay?"

"Only time." She raises a hand. "Promise."

Somehow, I don't think this is the last time we're going to be talking about this.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/2012: I'm going through the majority of the posted story (AKA chaps. 1-18) in order to make minor modifications and textual edits. No major changes will be made.

The hiatus will not last much longer. Please be patient! Thank you for everything thus far, and I hope you like _Pretending._


	2. Walk The Walk

**1.2**

"Tell me again why I agreed to do this."

I'm not sure why, but I think I like the feel of the precinct. It's delightfully crammed and busy; it almost reminds me of a train station, all wooden desks and human beings. Aiden slides her way between two of them, and I have to trot to keep up with her. I feel distinctly out of place in my jeans and Ganesha T-shirt. The only people in plainclothes around here are more than likely in handcuffs.

"Because you owe me big-time for checking out Graham Lockyer." She snags a folder from the end of a desk and passes it back to me without looking at it. "There's enough for your girl to file a restraining order against her stepfather here. Shouldn't be too hard if you're her advocate."

There are photographs of Minzy. Minzy with bruises. Minzy with a broken wrist. Minzy with her lip swelled up and with blood leaking from a cut on her arm. It's a knife cut, not a tear from catching her wrist on a nail, like the report says. I wonder why this wasn't registered before, and if that cut is why Minzy always wears those rainbow arm-warmers. If there are other cuts.

Anger boils in my stomach. I shove the file into my bag and make a mental note to call my lawyer. Now Minzy's lawyer. _You're going down, you son of a bitch._

"Yo, Danny!" Aiden jerks a thumb back at me, yanking me out of my fantasy of breaking Graham Lockyer's nose. And arms. And possibly clawing his face off. "We have a psychologist."

"Fabulous." Danny turns out to be one of the detectives, dressed a little less formally than the rest – I relax a little – with glasses and a bit of a flirty edge to the smile he sends me. I ignore it. _Short job. Get in, watch the interview, get out. Simple._ Working with coy detectives is definitely _not_ on the agenda. "So this is the mythical Bridget. We thought Aiden made you up."

"Would I lie to you?" Aiden tugs on my pigtail, like we're both in high school. Or grade school. "I told ya she lives."

"Clearly." Danny grins. "I'd shake your hand, you bein' a living legend and all, but Aiden'd probably break my arm off if I tried."

I laugh in spite of myself. Aiden does look about ready to break his elbow. So much for pairing me off with the guy.

"Bridget Carter," I say, shaking his hand anyway. It's warm and callused, and Danny sends a triumphant look at Aiden, who rolls her eyes.

"We know." A dark-haired man smacks the back of Danny's head with a file, ignoring his curse. "Once you get her started, Aiden won't shut up about you."

"And she's been telling you what?"

"Oh, loads of things." The dark-haired detective glances at me, and his mouth quirks a little. His eyes are incredibly blue. It's hard to look into them for too long; I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

"Shut up, Flack." Aiden takes his file, and the spell's broken. I wait until Flack turns away to let out a breath. _What the hell was that?_ "Point is, we got our psychologist, so can we get this over with, please?"

Flack looks from me to Aiden and back again. "_She's_ the psychologist?"

I bristle. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Not exactly." His eyes flick over me, considering, and then he turns to Aiden again. "He's in interview room four. _She's –_" he jerks a thumb in my direction "– just observing. We're not sticking a civilian in that room. We clear?"

Aiden scoffs. "You're whacked if you think I'm putting her in the same room with that guy. If she doesn't stay in the observation room, then _I'm_the one who's gonna kick her ass for it."

"Trust me, whoever the hell you want me to observe, I'm not going to be going into the same room with him." It's common sense for a civilian consultant. "And I wanna make it clear that this is a one-time thing, okay? I can't afford to get wrapped up in police work again."

"You were a cop?" Danny looks surprised.

"Tucson CSI," Aiden answers for me, handing me the case file. I open it, and the photos draw my eye the way that only blood can. "She works at the Safe House now."

"The Safe House, that's…that's that place for homeless kids, right?" When I blink at Flack, he shrugs. "I've sent some kids over there once or twice. Aiden never mentioned you worked there though."

"I'm the assistant director." I shuffle through the photographs, ignoring the bloodstains. It's precisely why I didn't want to do this; I'd started working at the Safe House to avoid this, not throw myself right back into it. "What are we looking at here?"

"Double homicide in Staten Island a couple weeks ago. Finally picked up a break in the case when the gun used cropped up in a drug store robbery, but the guy who used it isn't talking." They've shifted into cop mode now, and it's almost frightening. I can pick Aiden out of Detective Burn, but it's a challenge. "Evidence points his way. We need a confession. That, or a hint that we're barkin' up the wrong tree."

"And that's where I come in."

"And that's where you come in." Aiden claps me on the shoulder. "I have to pick up my headphones, and then we can go. You said room four?"

"I can take her," Danny says. Aiden shoots him a gimlet-eyed look, and then nods once, glancing at me.

"He'll flirt shamelessly. Ignore him."

"I think I can take care of myself."

She snorts. "Yeah. Sure. Flack, keep an eye on her."

"What, you don't trust me?" Danny puts a hand to his chest. "That hurts, Aiden. Really hurts. In my heart."

"Thought you didn't have one," says Aiden, smirking, and then she vanishes into the crowd of detectives, leaving me with a pair of cops. It's heaps of awkward, and I keep my eyes focused on the file. Even though the victims are staring back at me, it's still safer than hanging around here for much longer.

"So," Flack says, and stands up straighter. "Let's go."

Interview room four is to the back of the station, away from most of the noise and the bustle. It's all concrete back here, and I wonder if it's supposed to be cold; I rub my arms surreptitiously. Danny and Flack don't seem to notice the temperature. They've probably been back here so many times that it's an automatic adjustment for them.

"That's our guy." Flack jerks his head towards the two-way mirror. The guy sitting at the table can't be more than eighteen, and I wonder if that's why Aiden brought me here in the first place. My work with the Safe House probably gives me a bit of an advantage here.

I check the photograph in the file – yes, same boy, Rafael de Santos, seventeen – and frown. "He's been arrested for assault already?"

"Attacked his school guidance counselor with a pair of scissors." There's no playfulness in Danny now. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Nearly cut her ear off."

"Jesus."

Rafael plonks his heavy boots on the table, and puts his hands behind his head. He looks utterly relaxed, almost bored, as though this isn't new to him at all. "Who's interviewing?"

"Me and Aiden. A tag team will probably work better with this kid, he's like a cucumber." Danny shrugs, and checks his phone. "She's on her way. You okay with this?"

"Huh?" I blink at him, and then force a smile. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'm fine back here."

"You sure?"

I wonder what Aiden's told them about me to make them so concerned. "I'm fine. Seriously. I promise I won't break anything."

He nods. "If you have something, let us know through the microphone." And then he's vanished out the door. I can hear Danny and Aiden talking as it closes, and tune it out. It's been so long since I looked at a murder file that I can't seem to pull my eyes away from it.

Flack turns to the window as I study the file, staring at it as though he'd like nothing more than to be in the interview room, rather than stuck in the observation area with me. I don't blame him. It's highly uncomfortable in here. "So you're a psychologist."

"Yeah." I glance at him. "Do I not look like one or something? You keep asking."

He doesn't laugh. "Not exactly what I pictured, no."

"You don't have a lot of experience with psychologists then."

"I try to avoid it."

"Why?"

"Why?" Shock flickers across his face. I wonder how often he gets asked that question. "Not much of a fan, is all."

"It's not like psychology's a sport. It's science."

"Not really."

I can't help it. I scowl at him. "You're one of _those_, aren't you?"

"Those?"

"The people who believe that psychology's a soft science."

He shrugs. "Sure. I guess."

"And you would know this how?" An impatient noise escapes my throat. "You use psychology every day when you interview someone. You pick up verbal and physical cues to tell whether or not someone's lying. That's psychology."

"Exactly." He glances at me. "It's not science, it's common sense. And it's wishy-washy."

It's like I've been shoved into a microwave and set to 'steam.' "Excuse me?"

"You're workin' with opinion, not facts. You can't really prove anything. That's not what this case needs." Flack looks toward the window again, and tenses. "They're starting."

If I dared – and if I was taller – I'd bash him over the head with a chair. Instead, I inch closer to the two-way mirror, and keep my mouth shut. _A few hours. That's all. A few hours, and then you're done with this, and you can go back to the Safe House and file a restraining order against Mr. Lockyer. Yes._

"Morning." Aiden takes the chair opposite Rafael, looking pleased with herself. "How'd you sleep? I hear that lockup's getting a little less comfortable these days."

Silence. Aiden opens her copy of the case file, and slides a photograph across to him. "You recognize this weapon, Rafael?"

He doesn't even look at the picture. "No."

"That's funny, 'cause we checked. It has your prints all over it."

"Loads of ways that could have happened."

"So you do recognize the gun?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Danny snorts. "It's not like this is a hard question, Raf. Do you or do you not recognize the gun that _you handled_ within the last forty-eight hours to rob a drug store on the North Shore?"

Rafael makes a rude gesture. He turns to stare at the wall.

"Nice kid," I say, and to my surprise, Flack stifles a snort.

"We can play nice with you, Raf, but you gotta play nice with us for that to happen," says Aiden. She takes out another photograph. "I think this is a good shot of you, what do you think? See, you have the gun in Mr. Cho's face, and he's handing you the money, and look! We can see you clear as day. It's like you _wanted_ us to catch you."

"Well, maybe I have an evil twin," Rafael responds. "But that ain't me."

"Really? Because even identical twins have little differences. And this?" She taps the photo. "See this scar here? Right on your cheek? That's only on you, Raf. No twin to take the fall this time."

Rafael glances at Aiden, and makes a low noise in the back of his throat. It might be a denial, but the way he's looking at her says otherwise. "A'ight. So maybe I scared him a little. But you still don't have nothin' on me. Me and my brother, see, we look an awful lot alike." He leans back in his chair. "You can't prove anything, grainy photo like that. You're screwed."

I lean forward, and press the intercom button. "Aiden, make him look at the pictures of the bodies."

Her head tilts, but other than that, there's no sign that she's heard me. I get the feeling that Flack's watching me, though. It makes my skin prickle.

"You don't know why we wanna talk about your gun, do you, Raf?" Aiden leans forward. "Do you have any idea?"

"Get out of my face." Rafael pushes at the table, angrily, his arms still locked together by the cuffs. "God. You don't have no right to hold me here, bitch."

"Ooo, touchy." Danny's pissed. He doesn't touch Rafael, though his hands compress reflexively into fists. Any doubts I've had about Aiden's friends vanish. It's good to know they'll defend her, even though I know how well she can defend herself. "You a little anxious here, Raf?"

"No."

"You're gonna be. See, you're the one in the hot seat here. Me, when this is over, I'm gonna go home and watch the game. Maybe spend some quality time with my girlfriend." He shrugs. "Nothin' to it. You, on the other hand…well, lockup's not the nicest place to be at night, y'know?"

Rafael scoffs.

"Do you recognize these two?" Aiden asks. Rafael's eyes snap back to her as she holds out the snapshot of Angela Somerset, arm in arm with her husband Liam; it's a copy of the picture I have in my version of the file. They're both smiling by a bay, and there's a huge rock behind them; it reminds me of pictures of California.

"No."

"You sure?" It's the other picture now, of the gunshot wounds, Angela's half-open eyes, Liam's hand in hers. "How about now?"

Rafael stares at the picture for a moment, and then he looks away, but not before his eyes widen, oh-so-minutely. We all catch it. It could mean that he recognizes them; it could mean that the picture's shocked him. We need more information. "_No_."

My fingers are drumming a tattoo against my arm that reminds me of the beat from a song I used to know. "Does he have an alibi?"

Flack shakes his head. "Says he was with some friends at the time of the murder, but he's part of a gang. They're gonna cover for him no matter what."

"Which gang?"

"Smalltime group called Vengador Thirteen."

"Avenger Thirteen." I shrug at his look. "I took Spanish every year from third grade on. I remember bits and pieces." More than that, since I'd worked with TPD for over a year, but still.

"Wasn't asking."

"Okay, then."

"Rafael's pretty low when it comes to being a banger, but it's a gang, so whaddaya do?" Flack rubs the back of his neck. "We have proof he was at the drug store robbery, and his gun was used in the murder case; Vengador Thirteen runs all through that part of Staten Island. But he's not talkin', and unless he does we have no other way to link Vengador Thirteen to the murder."

"He's too smart for that. I wonder…" I hesitate. "What's Vengador Thirteen pulled in the past couple weeks?"

"Not much that we can pin down. They're still small-time. There's the drug store robbery for certain, maybe a few assaults, one or two B and Es." He frowns at me. "What are you thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking that he's still just a kid, no matter how smart he is." I press the intercom again. "Ask him about his parents, Aiden. Then bring up the snitch idea."

"Lemme guess, this is all because of his relationship with his mother?"

"Don't bring Freud into this, please, Detective Flack. The case is twisted enough already."

"Do your parents know you're here, Rafael?" Rafael's eyes flick around the room; suddenly, the ceiling is incredibly interesting to him. "Have you called them?"

"No."

"Do they know where you are?"

"They don't give a damn."

"We could call them, if you wanted. They can come pick you up." Aiden inspects her fingernails. "Then you can go home and hang with your bros. What're they called again?"

"The Vengadores." Messer catches on fast, I have that much to say. "You think they'll be happy with our boy here, gettin' out of lockup so quick?"

"Probably not, but hey, if he doesn't have anything to tell us, we can just send him straight back home."

"You don't know what you're talking about," says Rafael.

"No, we don't." She shrugs. "Hey, it's not your first offense, Raf. Me, if I was a 'banger and I saw a buddy of mine get out scot free after somethin' like this? I'd wonder what his angle was. We can hold you for a few more hours, and then what? We let you out without a charge, people are gonna be askin' questions."

"You don't know anything," he repeats, dead quiet. There's something lethal in his face.

"But you do, Raf. So here's the deal." Aiden pushes the photos forward again, the gun, the robbery, the murder, one by one. Rafael's eyes snap to the table. "You tell me what I need to know about the gun. We keep you here for a while longer. You call a lawyer, he does his fancy lawyer deal and gets you outta here so you can go back to your boys. You name names, we don't out you as a snitch."

"I'm not a goddamn snitch!"

"You will be, once we let you out." Danny stands, and steps aside so Aiden can pass. "We'll let you think on it, a'ight? Give you a couple minutes."

They shut the door behind them before Rafael can say anything. He looks about ready to snap Aiden's neck, no fear, no frustration, just pure fury. By contrast, Aiden's cold as ice; the temperature drops a few more degrees as she and Danny shut the door to the observation room oh-so-quietly behind them.

"I hate 'bangers," she says, in a low voice. "Really. Hate them."

"So, Doc, you got anything?"

For a second I think he's talking to someone else. Then I catch on, and twist my fingers into the belt loop of my jeans, thinking. "Maybe."

"I knew it." Aiden grins. "Talk to me, Bridge."

"You're probably not gonna like it."

"Fine by me."

I let out a breath. "I don't think he did it."

Danny swears. Flack's face goes stone cold. Aiden looks about ready to bite her tongue off; she grits her teeth. "Why, exactly?"

"No motive. The Somersets were from out of town, there's no way that a Staten Island gang would have any reason to kill them, and they weren't particularly wealthy, so theft is out." I pull the picture of the gun from the file, and hand it to her. "My guess, he picked the gun up from somewhere and decided to use it. What does he use it for? Robbing a drug store. He's a real son of a bitch, don't get me wrong. But he didn't recognize the Somersets, he didn't have any idea why you were shoving that photograph in front of him, and if he had done it, he'd be boasting about it right now instead of imitating a brick wall."

"But there are no other prints on the gun, Bridge."

"Riddle me this." It's Flack. "Could he have done it?"

"With his mental state?" I glance back at Rafael, who's currently strangling the air with his hands, or at least attempting to. "Definitely. But he has no motive. Psychologically."

"_Psychologically_," he says, and scoffs. "I told you she wouldn't be any help."

Flack leaves the room. Danny glances at Aiden, and then goes after him. I ignore it.

"Ask him where he found the gun. Not who gave it to him, but where he _found_ the gun. You'll probably get more results if you offer him a way out that doesn't involve outing his gang buddies." My knees are quaking. I stand, and head for the door.

Aiden frowns. "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

By the time I return – ten minutes later, after washing my face and hands and trying to pretend that I'm not trembling – they have an explanation, and Rafael is on his way back to lockup. Aiden meets me by one of the desks. "Have it. He picked up the gun from a garbage can in Arden Heights about two blocks away from where the shooting took place. Said one of the neighborhood kids told him where it was. Not a gang member," she adds, and slaps palms with Danny.

"We have a name?"

"We have a name and a possible witness. We are _golden_."

"I'm happy for you."

"Don't be happy for me. You're the woman of the hour here. I think you're good luck for the office, y'know? Walter brought in the dirtbag he's been tracking for weeks while you were here." She gestures to a desk about four rows away, where a uniform is lecturing a swarthy man in cuffs. "You okay?"

_No, I just had a panic attack in a public bathroom._"Yeah," I say. "Fine."

I swear to God, Aiden can _smell_when I'm lying. Her eyes narrow, and her voice softens. "You want me to go with you back to the Village?"

"No, that's fine." I clear my throat, and hook my thumbs into my pockets. "I'm just gonna go. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah."

My hands are still shaking as I walk out the door, and by the time I'm two blocks away, I'm about ready to vomit. I grab onto the nearest wall to steady myself, and take deep, shuddering breaths, ignoring the funny looks I'm getting. Or not getting. It's New York, after all.

It's over. And it's taken less than an hour. Once today is over with, I don't ever have to get involved in a police investigation again. It was a favor, and I'm done with it, and I can add a few things to my bank account in the bargain, but I don't ever have to do it again. I don't ever have to go back.

The scary part is how much I want to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor textual edits made. Hope you enjoyed!


	3. An Evil Inheritance

**1.3**

Thursday morning brings errands and trips to homeless shelters around the city. It's almost three o'clock by the time I drag my sorry ass out of the cab and onto the curb in front of the Safe House. My heart sinks. Simon's pacing the doorstep, not green, not red, but white as a sheet of paper. His London accent gets thicker the more stressed out he gets, and right now, it makes his words nearly incomprehensible. "Thank bloody God. Where the hell have you been?"

"I told you I'd be a while." I seize my bags and pay the driver, never taking my eyes off of Simon. "What the hell's going on?"

"David called, he's on his way, but Minzy's sodding parents are back and they caught her in the entryway and I tried calling your cell but you didn't pick up –"

I'd turned it off while talking to the homeless shelter director. I swear under my breath. "How long have they been here?"

"Nearly half an hour."

"They haven't touched her, have they?"

"Not that I'm aware of. I've been heading in and out, but Minzy won't let me help." He looks anguished, and I can understand why. Simon's twenty-one. Minzy's almost eighteen, attractive, and flirty when she puts her mind to it. The age difference isn't that big, and the maturity difference is almost non-existent. Her not letting him help must be killing him.

Minzy's clinging to the staircase, her face bone pale, her mouth almost sewn shut from the way it's so very obviously Not Moving, staring at the floor. Her parents – or, her mother and her stepfather, I'm not sure which to call them – are on either side of her. The stepfather's yelling. The mother's meek as a snail. She startles when I open the door, and her eyes flick from me to her husband to Minzy. She tugs the back of Mr. Lockyer's sleeve.

"Bridge," Minzy says, and bolts off the staircase. Her stepfather wheels around, reaching out to catch her elbow; she wrenches away and throws her arms around me, setting her mouth to my ear. "Don't make me go with them, don't make me leave, please –"

"Minette." Mr. Lockyer flashes a smile in my direction, as if to say, _Darn kids__ these days_. He's transformed since that night when he bellowed at me; he seems determined to be as polite and as 'aw-shucks' as possible. "Come on, kid. We've talked about this. Miss Conrad –"

"Carter." Minzy pulls away, her hand clenching into a fist on the back of my shirt. "My last name is Carter."

"Carter," he says, and smiles. "Miss Carter has her hands full looking after the other children here—"

"I'm not a child," Minzy flares, and then flinches back as Mr. Lockyer smiles. It doesn't look forced.

"No, of course you're not, sweetheart. But right now, you're behaving like one. Don't you think that qualifies?"

Minzy stays quiet. But she jerks as though she's been struck. In a way, it's possible that she has been. Words can be deadlier than knives in the wrong hands.

"I apologize for her behavior, Miss Carter. And for my own, on Saturday. My wife and I –" Here he reaches out, and tucks his arm around his wife's shoulders, as if it's the most natural move in the world; she brightens a little, a daisy with her face finally turned towards a sun. "– we were so relieved to find Minette again that it was…it affected our judgment."

Minzy's hospital records are tucked into my cloth bag, burning against my hip. "Really."

"She's run away before." Minzy flinches again. "Kids' hijinks, of course, but this time…we had no word of her for so long we were worried that she was dead or worse."

Did he seriously just say hijinks? I haven't heard that word since the last time I visited my grandfather, right before he died. What is this guy, a transplant of Robo-Dad from the 1960s? Minzy's rainbow arm-warmers catch my attention; they're frayed around her hands, worn thin, and I make a mental note to get her a new pair. I'm sure I've seen them somewhere around the city. And if not the city, then the internet.

"Miss Carter." This is so not what I need right now. I want to curl up under the bed and pretend that I never woke up this morning. "You seem like a sensible young woman. You have to understand, all I want – all we want, as a family – is to have Minette come home."

Minzy's fingers tremble against my spine.

He takes a step forward. "Minette –"

"Minzy." She's almost silent, but she says it nonetheless; I want to cheer. "My name is Minzy."

"Minette," he repeats, a little louder, as though he's going to overwhelm her with Reason and His Way of Thinking. "Sugar. Why don't you go upstairs and pack while I talk with Miss Carter?"

"It's okay," I say, as Minzy glances my way. "I'll meet you upstairs in a few minutes, okay?" I hug her, and keep my voice low. "I'm not gonna make you leave with them, sweetie."

I meet Simon's eyes over her shoulder, jerking my head a bit, and he follows Minzy upstairs. Mr. Lockyer looks triumphant for the shortest of moments, until he catches the expression on my face; then he deflates, like I've stuck a pin into his soufflé.

"Is there something the matter, Miss Carter?"

"It's Doctor."

"Excuse me?"

"Dr. Bridget Carter." For once I don't hate the title. Some of the other kids are peeping out of the living room, and I realize they've been watching since it all started and none of them have come to help; Matt meets my glare, and vanishes back into the room. "I'm a clinical psychologist."

The shocked look sweeps off his face. Then he fixes a smile on his face again. The message is clear: even with a degree he couldn't even dream of earning, I don't intimidate him. I can almost see him sorting me in his head – small, female, potentially annoying, but eventually harmless. Nothing and no one that he has to worry about. "Oh. I apologize, Dr. Carter. I didn't mean to offend –"

"I've been working with Minzy on and off for over a year now, and in everything we've talked about, she's never mentioned either of you." The mother flinches. I ignore it. "I've always wondered why. I wasn't sure if she didn't want to remember, if she was ashamed of you, or if she was just scared of you. I guess in a way I have to thank you, because now I know why."

There's an ugly edge to his smile. "Really."

"Don't make me call the police, Mr. Lockyer."

"I don't understand." He does, though. I can see it.

"I've talked to the hospital. I've seen her records." Minzy's mother startles. I focus on her. She's so thin, just a piece of parchment, or a delicate flower. I don't think she's said a single word since I met her. I don't even know her first name. Her husband dominates her totally. "And frankly, even if I'd never seen that file, the only way Minzy was going to leave with either of you was going to be over my dead body."

Patches of color flare in his cheeks. He steps forward. I slide my foot back, lowering my center of gravity – he looks about ready to slap me across the face.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

It's David. I nearly collapse in relief. There's another shadow, though, following him, and I only have a second to wonder what the hell Detective Flack is doing here before Mr. Lockyer's oozing away, his charm on full power.

"Excuse me, who are you? I don't think we've been introduced."

"Who are you? Visiting hours don't start until four-thirty." His eyebrows rise. "You're not from that church down the street, are you? We have enough pamphlets about the coming of Christ, thanks. I think we'll be fine."

"Mr. Lockyer." I spit the name through gritted teeth. "This is Dr. David Poole. He's the director of the Safe House. And this is…" I realize I don't know his first name. "Detective Flack from the NYPD. Dave, these are Minzy's…relatives."

"Parents," Mr. Lockyer corrects.

"You're a stepfather. You're not related to her by blood, and you're not her guardian, so you're a relative. A distant relative," I add, ignoring his glare.

"Really." Part of the reason that David's such a good therapist is how level he can be. He doesn't even blink at my rudeness. "Where's Minzy?"

"Upstairs. Simon's with her."

He raises an eyebrow. "Ah."

Lockyer recovers himself. "It's nice to meet you. We were just here to collect Minette."

"Minzy's not going anywhere with you."

"You have no right to dictate where my daughter goes."

"You're not her guardian, so neither do you."

He sputters. David and Flack watch him do it, like it's a mildly interesting TV show. Then David steps forward, and puts a hand on my shoulder. His fingers dig into my collarbone in a warning. I'll deal with it. "I think I can take it from here, Bridge. Detective, you said you wanted to talk to Charles; Bridget can take you to him."

I glare at David, but there's no way he could possibly know what happened in the interview room. Flack raises an eyebrow at me in a question.

"Yeah. Sure. Follow me. Nice to meet you," I say, to Mrs. Lockyer – she jumps – and then I stomp into the kitchen, ready to put a fist through the wall. Flack follows without a word.

I wait until I hear the door to David's office close before I whip around. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He rocks back on his heels. "Hello to you too, Dr. Carter. It's a nice day. I'd ask how you were feeling, but I'd say it's pretty obvious that you're annoyed with a lot of things right now, so if you don't mind, I'll just talk to my witness and go."

I'm exhausted, and I'm angry, and I'm being rude, and right now, I don't give a damn. "Look, none of the kids in the Safe House are using, so – so you're not going to find anything here. No drugs. House rules."

"Dr. Carter."

"And I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but just – just get it over with because I have a distraught teenager and groceries and that bastard in the other room to worry about –"

His eyes sharpen. "Dr. Carter."

"– and I don't need to deal with anything else right now, so just – just go and –"

"Dr. Carter."

"What?"

"Breathe."

I breathe, and wonder whether or not I'll get arrested for punching an officer of the law. Probably. It doesn't end the craving, though.

"Is there anywhere we can talk?" he asks, once I'm no longer hyperventilating. I resist the urge to drag him along by the rim of his ear – after all, it works on everyone else I know – before taking another breath.

"This'd be it." I cross my arms over my chest. "So talk."

Slamming things around in the kitchen will solve my anger faster than just about anything else. There're just enough cans of diced tomatoes in the pantry to make a decent pasta sauce.

"I need to talk to…" He checks his file. "Charles Downes."

Charles Downes. The name doesn't ring a bell until he flashes a photograph in my direction. "Oh, you mean Taquito."

He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Some of the kids have nicknames. Eeyore, Oreo, Minzy, Spider." Olive oil in the bottom of the pan, then the spices, with a lot of red chilies and garlic. I dust my hands clean and dive into the fridge, looking for the mushrooms. "Charles Downes is Taquito. And I don't know when he'll be in. Usually he shows up around nine or ten, but now he might not show at all now that the kids know there's a cop in the kitchen." I fume. "The whole building's probably gonna be empty by the time I finish with this."

"I'm not tryin' to scare anybody off, Dr. Carter. I just need to talk to this kid."

"Why, exactly?"

After a slight hesitation, Flack eases onto one of the counter stools, uneasily, watching my hands like I'm about to attack. "There was a shooting over in Jefferson Park, and we have the kid on tape as a witness. We're not gonna arrest him. We just need to talk to him, find out what he saw."

"Really." My voice almost drips irony. I'm surprised I don't see it spattering the floor like beads of blood.

"Really," he repeats. That almost-amused look is back on his face. "Look, I don't have anything else to do today, so I can wait for him. That is, if neither you nor Dr. Poole mind me stickin' around for a little while."

"David doesn't mind a lot of things."

"Meaning what?"

"David's a good man," I say, and pull a set of sausages from the freezer. "I trust his judgment. If he let you in here, you can stay."

"Really?"

"Really." I turn back to my pasta sauce, ignoring the mound of groceries that Simon's brought in from the taxi. I need to chop something, and somehow I don't think it's legal to use his fingers as knife-sharpeners. "What happened with the case, by the way? I haven't heard from Aiden yet."

"We found the guy who did it." Flack turns a page in his file. "Stepbrother of the bride. Apparently it was a family feud. He dumped the gun in a trash can, neighborhood kid saw him do it, told Rafael, and Rafael picked it up, just like he said."

The wash of pride and pure relief that hits me is unexpected, and altogether too powerful for me to ignore. I pause, savoring it, because it's the last time I'm going to feel something like this, the accomplishment that comes at helping put a criminal behind bars. I'm done with police work, after all. "And Rafael?"

"Headed to juvie. The robbery stuck."

"Good." Flack glances up, startled at the bitterness in my voice. I don't look at him. "I've dealt with the aftermath of too many kids like that. What they can do. He needs to be off the street."

We're both ignoring the gigantic elephant in the middle of the room, and we're both content to leave it that way. I don't really want to talk about my choice of job by now, or his level of belief and/or disbelief in psychology. If I had the materials, I'd be halfway through a brownie mix by now; nothing takes the edge off of irritation like baking. At least, for me.

There's a tapping noise; he's whacking his pen against the counter, thoughtfully, watching me as I bolt around the kitchen. My anger's siphoning off now; I'm too tired to stay annoyed any longer. Minzy and the Lockyers have sucked all of it out of me.

"Who was that guy?" he asks, as though he's read my mind, and my hands go still on the carrots before I yank them out of the fridge. "That the one Aiden was checkin' out?"

"Yes." My voice is tight. "That's Graham Lockyer."

"What were you gonna do?" Flack looks curious. "If he hit you. What were you gonna do?"

"Kick him in the nuts and run." And make sure to drag Minzy along with me. Flack grunts, and then turns back to his papers.

"That's it?"

"What else was I supposed to do? It's not like I've had time to go to the gym lately." I should change that. I make a mental note to call up Gina about kickboxing again. "I have Mace in my office. Besides, I can take care of myself."

He doesn't seem to have an answer to that one. After a few minutes, I glance at him again, weighing the tomatoes thoughtfully. He's not looking at me, staring very intently at his case file, pretending he hasn't memorized it all by now, and after a moment, I plonk the can down in front of him. Flack blinks.

"If you want to help, you can open that and then start unloading the groceries." I turn away before I have to meet his eyes. "There's no point in you hanging around here for hours and not having anything to do."

I'm not sure, but I think I catch a small smile on his face as he goes to search for the can opener.

Unsurprisingly, none of the kids come into the kitchen as long as Flack is helping me with the food. I catch a few of them peeping through the door, but by the time I look around again, they're gone, as though they were never there at all.

Flack doesn't say much. After he figures out where all the groceries go, he asks after a few kids he's sent over here – most of them have gone home, never arrived, or only show up once or twice a month – and then falls silent, reading through his case file again. I'm walking on eggshells with him around, though an officer of the NYPD is an asset for when Lockyer comes out of his meeting with David, ready to kill.

I'm not sure about having two cops know what's going on with Minzy. It could work out well. Cops are good witnesses for any prosecution. But…I don't know. Minzy's a runaway; they'll be obligated to report her sooner or later, and besides, it feels like a violation of trust. I quit Tucson to get away from cops and courts, not to walk right back into them.

Once the sauce is warm enough to be left unsupervised, and Flack and David are talking, I head upstairs to check on Minzy. I shouldn't have bothered. She and Simon are in the game room, sitting close together on the couch, each with a controller from the PS2. Simon flushes a little when I come in, but doesn't move out of his seat as Minzy stands and hugs me.

Both David and I sit in on Flack's interview with Taquito, and I don't know whether it's our presence or the fact that Flack drops the golden name – Stella Bonasera, the woman who brought Taquito to the Safe House in the first place – but he keeps talking about what he saw until he starts going in circles. Still, it's nothing definitive, so we have to cut off the interview early. Flack will be back, I'm sure.

Minzy comes in when I wave for her, and escorts him upstairs. Minzy's good with the younger kids, and Taquito's only about twelve; he's here more for the aid than anything else, considering his parents have knock-down-drag-out fights almost every other night. I think they live in an abandoned subway tunnel near here.

Flack leaves around one in the morning, promising to check up on Taquito soon, and then Francesca comes in with one of her pimps. Or she tries to; it takes a few more hours to get the man to go away, and by the time the argument is over and done with, my head's throbbing like one enormous beesting. David tells me to sleep in as long as I want. He and Simon can manage the desk and the kids for the morning, at least. I would sleep later, if it isn't for the invading hurricane.

"You're still asleep?" Aiden drops onto the end of my bed and smacks my knee through the blankets, ignoring my stifled moan. "God, it's nearly noon. Get up already."

"I was up late last night, all right? Leave me alone."

"Up late doing what?" Her grin is pure evil. "You didn't have a guy over, did you? You rebel."

"I did not have a guy over." I spy Minzy peering through my half-open door with a moonlike smile, and crook a finger at her. "You. You die for this."

She stifles laughter and clatters away down the stairs. Aiden steals my pillow before I can cram it over my head, and even though it is, admittedly, almost noon, she's altogether too cheerful for the morning hours. "Hey, so guess what. We caught the guy who killed the Somersets."

"I know." I bury my head in the sheets. "Flack was here last night, he told me."

"Wait, _here__,_ here?" The angle of her eyebrow means many, many bad things, and I kick at her. She sits on my foot.

"No. Is your brain directly wired to the gutter? He had to talk to Taquito."

"He had to talk to a taquito?" Aiden eyes me. "Bridge, are you drunk? You're not supposed to be drinking on duty."

"God, Aiden." I can't deal with this. Covers. Over my head. Now. "Taquito's one of the kids."

"Oh." My foot's going numb from her weight, but I don't dare say anything in case she uses her nails. "That's boring. Also, irritating. That rat stole my thunder – I was looking forward to seeing the expression on your face." She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "Maybe I can shoot him."

"Go ahead. Make the world safe for psychologists."

Aiden makes a face. "Yeah. I forgot he'd probably react like that. I should have brought you in while he was out on assignment or something. He's not that into the soft sciences."

"Psychology isn't a soft science."

"Right." She pats my ankle in a condescending sort of way, and then stands up again. I wonder how many shots of espresso she's had this morning to be so peppy. When we were sharing the same room, this situation was a total role-reversal – usually I was the one who had to drag her out of a mattress-and-duvet cocoon, not the other way around.

"Actually, I wanted to tell you something."

I peep out from under the covers again. "And something tells me I'm not gonna like it."

She grimaces again. "Look, I'm not the one who told him, so don't shoot the messenger, okay? Mac – my boss Mac, not Mackenzie from Trace –"

She's obfuscating. She definitely knows I'm not gonna like it. I sit up, running my hands through my hair, and swing my legs out of bed, trying not to moan. How on earth did I manage to get a bruise _there_? "Get to the point, Aiden, before I stab you."

"He heard about the case. And apparently we've been looking for a forensic psychologist for longer than I've been working at the NYPD."

All the blood drains from my face. "You told him?"

"I said I didn't, all right, so don't go all squeaky on me."

"I'm not a forensic psychologist, Aid!"

"You're a clinical psychologist with a background in criminalistics who's made a living as a CSI. He's interested." She bats my hand away. "That's it! That's all I have to say about it, all right? I told him you'd probably say no. You care about this place too much."

I grab my pillow away from her and press it over my face. It's childish, but I don't care. I'm not sure which I want to do more – jump in the East River or kill whoever told 'Mac' about my involvement. "Whm td m?"

"You need to speak English, Bridge."

I lift my head from the pillow. "Who told him?"

"Promise not to kill him."

"I'm not making any promises, Aiden."

"Then nope."

My mind whirs. "It was Danny, wasn't it? I'm gonna stake that son of a bitch –"

"Sit. Down." Aiden glares at me. "Now."

I sit.

"Look, the only reason I'm telling you this is that Mac might be calling you in a couple of days to see if you're interested in working with the NYPD on a part-time basis." She emphasizes the last three words more than she should; they knock into my head like bricks. "You wouldn't be giving up the Safe House, and you wouldn't be dealin' with more than you can handle, all right? So calm down before you hurt yourself. You're spastic this morning, I swear to God."

I waver for a moment. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

My breath leaves my lungs in a whuff as I flop back onto the bed. Aiden watches me do it, a contemplative expression on her face. "Do you really not want to work cases again that badly?"

"It's not that I don't want to work cases again." Thus my panic attack in the bathroom. In the past few days, I've had to literally force myself not to go back to the precinct and beg more information about the case – had anyone been caught, what was the motive, who had gone on the raid to pick them up. "I just don't think I _should_."

She analyzes that. "Mac'll still probably wanna talk to you."

"Fine. I'll talk to him." How I'm going to make it through the conversation without saying yes, though, I have no idea.

After a moment, Aiden stands. "Come on. I brought doughnuts."

"A cop bringing doughnuts. How stereotypical."

"Fine. If you're going there, I'll eat yours." And she will, too. Aiden's been gifted with the swear-worthy ability to eat her own weight in sugar and not gain an ounce. I grab my sweater from the end of my bed.

"Don't you dare!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor textual corrections and slight expansion. Nothing much. Thanks for reading!


	4. Here And Now

**1****.4**

Having David back at the Safe House makes things infinitely easier. At the very least, it means that I have less to do; by the time Friday (and Aiden's birthday) rolls around, I'm actively seeking out chores just to have an excuse to keep my hands busy. The kids in the Safe House are the ones who are going to stay, no matter who shows up; Flack and Aiden have scared off less than I thought they would.

Matt is still here, and Taquito, despite his interview; Willow and Wilder (their real names) are too, though they never show up except in the afternoons. Their parents are squatters over in Tribeca, and don't really care where their twins go. Then there's Oreo and Sasquatch, who sleep in one of the guest bedrooms on Thursdays; Maguire, a Goth boy who hangs around with the equally Goth, equally silent Matt; and Eeyore, a gloomy girl with ratty blue hair who shows up periodically every other day to shower and eat before vanishing back onto the streets.

Minzy's still the only mostly permanent resident, and from how she's been sticking to her room the past few days, there's no way she's leaving anytime soon. And if she goes anywhere, we'll be able to track her down easily enough.

Usually, I'm the first one up in the morning, but when I tromp down the stairs on Friday in my bathrobe to put the coffee on, David's already sitting at the counter, glancing over the _Times _and stirring his mug of decaf with one hand. He holds up the notebook we use to take messages as I come in, without looking up from his article.

"Call for you."

"When?"

"Yesterday afternoon." I'd taken Taquito and some of the other younger kids out to Central Park yesterday afternoon, and had paperwork all night, but I still wince that David took the call. He has notoriously bad handwriting and an even worse memory for names. "Cops are lookin' for you."

"Cops?" My first thought is Aiden, but that's ridiculous, because she knows my cell phone number and wouldn't call the Safe House anyway. My second thought is Flack, which is equally ridiculous, and I shove that idea out of my head. I take the notepad.

"Detective Mac Taylor." My heart sinks. David lifts an eyebrow, just one, as he says, "You have something you want to tell me, Bridge?"

I hesitate. "It's not like it really means anything."

"Bridget, the head of the NYPD Crime Lab is calling the Safe House, wanting to talk to you," David says. "Either you've been running drugs through here – in which case, they'll be breaking in sooner or later and it'd be better to come clean now – or it means a lot more than you want it to." His eyes soften. "You can talk to me, Bridge, I hope you know that."

"I know." Of course I know that, after all this time. I still make my coffee first – caffeinated, because I don't know how he can drink decaf and remain alive – and then I tell him. It pours out of me in a rush, Rafael de Santos, the interview, the feel of the precinct, the temptation that's been resting in the pit of my stomach over the past few days, all of it, and I can hear the excitement in my voice as I go over the results. I'm almost sick with guilt for it.

David says nothing – he only watches me, absently sipping at his coffee now and again, and peruses the paper. When I finish, he still doesn't speak; he considers for a minute or two first. He always thinks before answering. It's one of the things that makes him such a good listener. It's also one of the things that makes him so damn annoying that I could scream.

"Well, first of all, I haven't heard you this excited since you found that vintage band T-shirt for the Who."

I blush, and get up to add whipped cream to my coffee. It's decadent, and I probably don't need it, but right now I don't care much. "That was an amazingly rare shirt and I bought it for a dollar. Of course I was excited."

He laughs. "So I've heard. Are you going to take the job?"

"No, of course not." Oreo's stolen all the whipped cream. I grab the half-and-half instead. "I don't have the time to consult for the NYPD, or the willingness to drag myself back into all that again. I moved away from Tucson for a reason."

"Because when it gets above ninety you go catatonic?"

"Noted." And of course, it was in the middle of the summer that we had to stay outside the longest. Match made in hell. "Though Phoenix is hotter by about ten degrees. It can get up to a hundred and twenty in the summertime."

"It sounds like Kuwait."

"Don't remind me."

David taps the newspaper with his ballpoint pen, underlining an article with a single, sharp motion. "If it's only going to be a part-time consulting position, then why aren't you taking it?"

The half-and-half slips out of my hands. Thankfully, it hits the counter instead of the floor, and doesn't spill. Well, mostly. "Excuse me?"

"You don't have to pay for housing here, yes, but the city's expensive, and your singing gig's been nonexistent lately." David shrugs. "And that's not even considering whether or not you'll enjoy doing it."

"I won't. Not as much as I enjoy working with the kids."

He watches me wipe up the drops of half-and-half. "You enjoy working with the kids, Bridge, but your heart isn't in it. You think I don't see your face light up when you watch _The Maltese Falcon_ or something with Oreo? Your bookshelf is full of mystery novels. You own nearly every Alfred Hitchcock movie ever made."

"So do a lot of people."

"It's not the same and you know it."

I throw the sponge back in the sink.

"Whether you like it or not, Bridge, this is in your blood. Not wanting to get involved isn't going to change that anytime soon."

"You don't know what it does to me, okay?" The backs of my eyes hurt. I blink furiously. "You don't know what it can do to you. I _left_ Tucson because of it. I can't go through all of that again, David. I can't do that to myself again. I _won't_."

"I'm not saying you should, Bridge." He covers my hand with his. "I'm saying that you should do what you want to do. You know your own limits. If you feel you can't do it, then don't. If you feel you can…" He shrugs. "Do what's right for you."

"What if I don't know what's right for me?" I say.

"I can't make the decision for you, Bridge. But your instincts are good. I'm sure you'll choose what's best for you."

Not really. I don't have the best track record with that sort of thing.

"I know you left Tucson for a reason, Bridget." I pull my hand away from his, and keep my eyes on the table. "And I know you don't want to talk about it. But letting your past dictate your future is never a good idea. Especially if the past is something you regret."

The tenseness in my spine eases. He doesn't know. I offer him half a smile and head back upstairs before he can say anything else.

Eight o'clock comes much too fast, and before I realize it, Minzy – who apparently overheard my conversation with Aiden – has forced me into a skirt and almost thrown me bodily out of the Safe House. I don't know whether or not to thank her for it. Probably not.

I haven't visited Aiden's apartment in a long time – actually, not since I helped her move in – and I feel like a real bitch for not coming sooner. Stella's the one who answers the door, and I can't help grinning at her. Stella's probably the only one of Aiden's cop friends who I've met outside of Aiden's supervision; she's brought more than a few runaways to the Safe House personally. She brightens when she sees me, and, to my surprise, hugs me lightly before letting me inside.

There aren't that many people here, maybe ten at the most, with some faces I recognize, some that I don't. There's a sign pasted to the wall by the kitchen that says, _You're not allowed in here, Aiden, so turn around right now, _and a few trays of ordered food. Some of it looks Greek, other parts Indian, and, for some reason, there's a plate of something that looks like Milano cookies. I drop my gift-bag (a DVD she's been lusting after for weeks) by the collection of semi-wrapped, semi-covered objects by the food, and catch her in a hug that could crush a rib.

"Happy birthday, sweetie."

"Hey, you came!" Her beaming smile sends a knife into my gut as she hugs me back, happily. "Told ya it'd be small. I don't do raves."

I can't help it. I laugh. "You've never been to a rave in your life unless you were breaking it up."

"Stop telling all my secrets." Aiden prods at my shoulder with a forefinger, and then drops back on the couch, pulling me down with her. "Glad you could make it. I know you've had a busy week."

Not so much busy as distracting. I've been taking on every odd job possible to forget how it felt like to be back in a police station again. Still, I've had to fight the urge to head to the precinct sometimes. It's too much like home. It's dangerous. "Minzy's been having a hard time," I say instead, because this is Aiden's party, and she doesn't need to deal with my gloom factor. "Her parents haven't come back yet, but…"

"Is she gonna press charges?"

"Here's hoping."

"Good."

"Who's pressing charges?" Danny asks, leaning over the back of the sofa. Aiden fills him in, and I take the chance to go talk to Stella, who's making no comment at my presence at Aiden's party; they must have told her. But Stella's already talking, to a dark-eyed man with a Very Serious Expression, so I retreat to the nearest bookshelf and start browsing.

I'm not sure, from a psychologist's perspective, whether I should be please or concerned with Aiden for being so focused on her job. Most of her bookshelf is full of true crime novels, though there are a couple of other books, mostly thrillers or trashy pulp fiction that I wouldn't have ever dreamed Aiden would even look at. Maybe that's why they're filed with the spines facing the wall, rather than out at the room.

The photos on the wall are another stab. There's Aiden and her mother, a few weeks before her mom died; Aiden and her foster brothers; a few artsy photographs of the bay; an elm tree decked out in autumn colors; Aiden and me. We're both grinning into the camera; Aiden has her arm tight around my neck. I fight the urge to brush the glass with my fingertips.

"I love that picture."

It's Stella. She swirls the wine in her glass without looking at me, focused on the photographs. "You know, I didn't connect Dr. Bridget Carter with the Bridge in Aiden's stories until I saw this photograph. It was a bit of a surprise."

"Really?"

"She keeps secrets. It took her six months to even mention you at all."

I know that feeling. I take the photo off the wall. "It's from right before we graduated. It was Aiden's birthday, I think…" I point. "There's Paul. I think he's working at a mental hospital in Cincinnati. And Lukas, my boyfriend at the time. We broke up when he moved to Italy. And Regina. I don't know what happened to her."

I make a mental note to look her up. Regina had been more Aiden's friend than mine, but I'd liked her. She had spunk.

"I moved back to Tucson a few months after this was taken and went to the academy there." I don't know why I'm explaining this to Stella, other than the fact that she has her head tilted and her ears pricked. She's a good listener. "But I had to come back. It's not that I hate Tucson, but…the city's in my blood now, I guess."

She laughs. "It does that to some people. I was raised here, and I can't imagine living anywhere else. Though I did spend a semester in Hawaii during my senior year in college."

"Hawaii?"

"Hibiscus blossoms led me astray."

I laugh. Stella smiles back, and sips her wine.

"You seem very close."

I don't have to think about it. "We are."

"She doesn't make friends easily." Stella grimaces. "None of us do, really. Crime scene investigation isn't something that leaves a lot of time for a social life. But you would know that."

"Mm." There's not much else I can say. "I should thank you, actually."

"For what?" She blinks.

"For making this a ten-person party instead of a three-person." I hang the photo again, and then pull one of the books from the shelf, randomly – _The Far Pavilions_, by M.M. Kaye. "All of you are her friends. And you're right. She doesn't make friends easily. Neither do I," I add absently, thumbing through the pages. It's a long book, easily as thick as my fist. "It's the way things work out sometimes, I guess."

Stella nods. "Speaking of, I wanted to ask how –"

"Stella." It's the Very Serious Man; his eyes glide from me to Stella and back. "Hawkes wants you in the kitchen."

Her smile could cut glass. "If he's touched the spanakopita, I'll fricassee him."

"Don't kill my M.E., Stella."

"I didn't say I would kill him. I said I'll fricassee him. Do you want anything?" I shake my head, and Stella shrugs; she hands Very Serious Man the glass of wine and marches away. Very Serious Man sets it onto the edge of the bookshelf, gingerly, as though he's not quite sure what to do with it. He holds out his hand.

"Mac Taylor."

"Bridget Carter." So this is Aiden's boss. His eyes sharpen at my name, and I almost cringe as the half-argument, half-shouting match with David flares in the back of my mind. "It's nice to meet you. Aiden talks about you a lot."

"Really." His hair, his outfit, his bearing, it all screams military, and in a way it almost reminds me of my father. I bite the inside of my cheek. I've never been very good at talking to my father. I hope this works out differently.

"Well, the whole crime lab. Not the cases, of course, but…" Lame. Lame. _Lame_. I'm so awkward it's embarrassing. "Her job means a lot to her."

"She's good at it."

"I'm not surprised."

If possible, this is worse than being stuck in the observation room with Flack. I clear my throat. "I'm sorry I wasn't around to take your call yesterday."

He waves a hand, dismissing the issue. "Dr. Poole explained where you were. Don't worry about it."

There aren't many ways I can respond to that. "…oh. I…actually just heard about it this morning. So…Thank you for the offer, but…"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "You don't have to answer right away, Dr. Carter."

I worry the inside of my cheek, thoughtfully. "Actually, I was wondering what it would take. I mean, I'm on call for the Safe House, and sometimes I work nights –"

"Working as a consultant is different than working in the crime lab. We'll probably only be calling you in on a few cases, or ask you to observe interviews, like Aiden did. And you wouldn't have to get more involved than you wanted. You'd be paid on a case by case basis, and you could turn a case down if you didn't want to get into it."

Something, some twist of anxiety inside me, loosens a bit. Minimum involvement would be good. Knowing me, I wouldn't stay there, but still. "Oh."

"And like I said, you don't have to give me an answer right away. You can come into the lab and observe for a few days before you make your decision. Of course," he adds, "you'll have to sign a release form." He slides a card out of his wallet, and offers it to me. _Det_._ Mac Taylor_. There's a phone number and an email address. "Let me know if you're interested."

I take the card, and I don't have to fake the little smile on my face. One thing's for certain: Detective Mac Taylor is a lot easier to get along with than my father. We're talking music by the time Stella returns, with a second glass of wine (which she hands to me) and another guest (to pass off to Detective Taylor). The guy introduces himself as Sheldon Hawkes ("_Dr_. Sheldon Hawkes," Stella corrects him, laughing as he makes a face); he almost reminds me of Simon with his earnest sincerity.

The conversation shifts, from music to psychology (which Don't-Call-Me-Dr. Hawkes is highly interested in) to the kids that Stella wanted to inquire after earlier (Taquito and Matt – both of them aren't as forthcoming about their situations as I'd like) and after it changes again to politics (which is dangerous for me to get into with anyone) I excuse myself. Aiden's still chatting with Danny, but the loveseat is empty; a prime target. I settle in, tucking my feet up under me. It's comfortable. Which is interesting. I'm never comfortable enough to read in a room full of strangers.

_Analyze later. Relax now._

"So you interview serial killers in your spare time, but you can't handle a party? That's a little sad, Dr. Carter, it really is."

I know that voice. I hide a grimace. "Detective Flack. I didn't know you'd be here this evening."

"Flack's fine. And Aiden invited me." He shrugs. He's in jeans, and a button-down shirt that almost, but not quite, matches his eyes. It's jarring to see. I've never pictured Flack in anything but a suit. Scratch that, I never really picture him at all. "Can I sit down?"

"Not my couch." I pull my feet up under my skirt, curling as much into the side of the loveseat as possible, and stare at the top of the page. Like there's any way I'm going to be able to read _now_. "Of course, that chair over there isn't mine either."

He sits on the loveseat, whether it's because he's trying to be obnoxious or because he's trying to break the near-palpable awkwardness that's carried over from the last time we talked, I'm not sure. Either way, it makes it impossible for me to focus.

I flick glances at him over the top of my book. Now that he's sitting down, it's easier to look him in the face. Maybe that's why I notice details I didn't before. He's attractive, I realize with a jolt. It's not just his eyes, either. It's other things, like the edge of his jaw, and the angle of his nose, and the strands of dark hair just barely brushing his forehead. Until now, I haven't recognized it – I've been too focused on being irritated with him to want to.

I guess that means I'm not irritated with him. Not yet, anyway.

The sudden urge to brush my fingers over his face, just where the jaw and neck collide – there's stubble there that he's missed – catches me completely off guard, so I blurt, "I've never done that."

"What?"

"Interview a serial killer." Thankfully, I've never had to chase one down, either. There aren't all that many, despite what TV and books will tell you. "On the whole, I try to avoid them."

"Sound policy." Pause. "What are you reading?"

"I just grabbed it off the shelf. I don't know what it's about, really. India, I think." I don't even know anymore. I toss the book onto the coffee table and fluff the ends of my hair, thinking. I'm still not sure if I even _like_ Flack, let alone if I can tolerate him through the rest of Aiden's party. I will, of course, because it's Aiden, but it's difficult to know quite where I stand with him. Or vice versa. I could hate him for being an ass about my job, which he has no business being an ass about in the first place, or I could like him for being a good cop and for apologizing for acting like an ass. Or I could go someplace in between, or someplace with nothing to do with either of them.

Oh, hell. The walking-on-eggshells feeling is back. I clench my hand into a fist around the edge of the pillow. I hate doing this. I'm good at reading people. It's my _job_ to read people, to know how to react to them.

So why can't I read one measly detective?

"Do I have somethin' on my face?" I try not to jump at the sound of his voice, but fail miserably. "Or is there something you wanna tell me?"

"Ha-ha." I resist the urge to kick him. "To be honest, I zoned out."

"Would I be interested in the content?"

"Not unless you want to hear about psychology for an hour."

"Rather not, thanks."

"How did I guess?" I swirl my wine in the glass. It's good; if I know Aiden, it's from New Zealand. She has a fascination with the place, and has ever since she heard the accent, which she describes as _Australian, with a kinda English way of rolling the vowels_. And to her, that makes it dead sexy. "So I have a question for you."

He leans back into the loveseat, and stares at the window. "Shoot."

"How is it a detective who works with crime scene investigators and pathologists and professional interrogators every day can exist without some level of belief and trust in the science of psychology?"

For a few seconds, there's no answer, and I wonder if he's ignoring me. Then he lets out a long, humming breath, the way people do when they're thinking hard. He taps his finger against his kneecap, drumming out a beat from a song I almost recognize. "How do you work?"

"Excuse me?"

"Say you're interviewin' somebody. You've never met 'em before. What do you do?"

I have a feeling this train of thought will bite me in the ass later. But I think about it before responding. "Observe body language. Make a few preliminary overtures to them to see how they react. Pick a train of conversation from there."

"Okay. What if they're a crook? What if they've killed somebody?"

"Adjust the interrogation techniques to suit the psychology of the crime."

"But what _science_ do you do?"

"I apply the study of human behavior and use that as a guide to get a confession out of him."

Flack makes an impatient noise. "Do you test anything?"

"What, like…a sample of something?" I'm about ready to make an impatient noise right back at him. "You can't _sample_ human behavior."

"Exactly. You're not measurin' anything, you're not testing anything, you're…observing." He shrugs. "I had a great-aunt who worked as a psychic. You know, on Coney Island? She made a mint, and she always said she wasn't doing anythin' other than watchin' people. How they reacted to things."

"So…basically you're calling me a hack psychic?"

"No. I'm callin' most psychics amateur psychologists."

It's a fine distinction, and to my endless frustration, I can see where he's coming from. I swirl my wine again, and consider. Thoughts are spiraling around my brain like fireworks. "It's not a science like chemistry or physics, but it's still a science."

"Not really."

Stop. Talking. Flack. "If you think about it, the so-called 'soft-sciences' – psychology, sociology, anthropology – are a _lot _more difficult than the hard sciences because of that non-quantifiable aspect. We're not working with substances. We work with the essence of the human mind, social behaviors. We have to make connections using the bare bones of what we know, and build an analysis around it. It's more complicated, in some ways, and less complicated in others, but it's just as rewarding, and we get results."

"So did my great-aunt," he says. "And she didn't have to go to school for it."

Our eyes meet, and just like before, that vibrant icy blue catches me by surprise. I scowl at him anyway, not liking the mischief that's sparking there. "So, basically, you don't believe me."

"Not really." Another shrug. "Like I said, it's usin' your eyes and usin' common sense to figure out what your eyes are telling you. Not much more than that. And plus, you don't get to send samples through that gas chronology thing."

"Gas chromatography-mass spectrometry machine," I correct. "GCMS."

"Whatever."

"Aiden, sit down!" Stella says, laughingly. "Adam? Do you wanna get the plates? I think it's finally time for the cake."

"Oh, you did _not _bring cake." Aiden's eyes about pop out of her head. "Stella!"

"Don't blame me, it was Danny's idea."

"Oh, Messer, you're going _down_ for this one," Aiden says, but the smile on her face is about as big as the Hudson, so we all know she doesn't mean it. They crowd at the entrance of the kitchen. Flack stands, and his eyebrows lift comically;

"You comin'?"

I'm indignant. "Of course."

I realize, as I slide the business card into my wallet and drop onto the couch next to Aiden, that I might have just had an almost-civil conversation with Never-Learned-His-First-Name Flack.

….weird.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

6/9/12: Edits made.

There were a few little edits that I made to the chapters preceding this one, nothing major, just a few changes: the Safe House now deals in homeless teens, not runaways. Maybe a few grammatical things. Not much.

There will be crimes and stuff soon, I swear.

I also updated a day earlier than I usually do...I won't be able to update tomorrow, like my schedule normally allows, so I thought I'd give you something today rather than later. :)


	5. The Homeless Tempest Tost

**1.5**

Mac's business card ends up in the spot of honor on my bedside table, where it glares at me every time I head into my room to grab a) some laundry, b) my notebooks, or c) both. When it's not pasted to the bedpost, it's in my pocket, and sometimes – yes, I confess – I pull it out to study it and think around in circles.

_I don't need to deal with it all again._

_But the Safe House could do with the money._

_So I can get a job washing dishes. Or go find another singing gig. Not that difficult._There are more than enough jobs in the city for someone with a half-decent voice, and none of them on Broadway, either.

_What other job will work to your schedule this way?_

_I left the crime lab to get away from brutality, and now just because there's an option I haven't considered before I'm gonna walk right back into it? No, thanks._

_But you miss it._

Whenever _that_ thought pops up, I take some of the kids down to the local basketball court

and slam my feelings through the hoop. Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how much I miss the thrill of it. It doesn't matter how much I miss using psychology to catch criminals. What I'm doing now is stopping crime from _happening_. Sure, it's on a small scale, and sure, it doesn't pay as much as it could, and yes, sometimes these kids break my heart, but it's still better than walking into death every day.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

David hasn't pushed me about the issue, and I haven't brought it up, but sometimes I can feel him watching me watch the card, and his questions practically crawl up my spine like cockroaches. I don't say anything to him, but the thing is, I don't have to, because we've worked together long enough for him to know exactly how my brain works. The fact that he has at least ten years on me where psychology and analysis are concerned doesn't help matters.

If this were a TV show, if my life was playing out on the silver screen, there would be some dramatic scene in the subway or the park or on the way to the court or the YMCA, where a dead body appears in front of me and I would rediscover my passion for crime-solving and go off and join the NYPD with no regrets. And as horrible as it is, sometimes I hope something like that will happen. At least then I'd make up my mind about it.

Aiden's wrapped up in cases again – apparently the short break was just that, short – and I almost forget about Flack and the disturbing way that he manages to slide away from anything psychological. Even in my head I can't really fit him into a box. Well, I can – there are certain character markers that almost always show up in cops, after all – but anything else is a mystery. Actually, pretty much _everything_ else is a mystery, and it's driving me crazy, because I don't like mysteries. Or, rather, I love mysteries, but I don't like ones left unsolved. It's probably what drew me to the crime lab in the first place, that incessant need to solve the puzzle, and I blame my mother for it. She's the one who introduced me to a Rubik's Cube, after all.

This love of mysteries means nothing good when it's connected with Detective Flack.

"Dr. Carter."

It's Simon. I glance up from my Rubik's Cube, blinking like a bat in a sudden burst of light. In a way, I _am _a bat – he's opened the door to the combination library/office, and I've kept the curtains closed for hours now. I have a killer headache. "Hm? You can call me Bridget, Simon. You swear at me often enough."

He flushes a little, but hands the file over anyway. "You asked for this."

It's Matt's file. What little we know of her is pasted into a manila folder that'll probably end up in a drawer at the bottom of a desk somewhere, rarely opened. Possibly never opened again. I take it from him and put the Rubik's Cube onto the edge of the desk, wondering if nudging it over the edge will somehow, miraculously, solve it for me. "Thanks. How's Minzy doing?"

Simon's had more contact with Minzy than me over the last few days. They've been spending more time together than is, perhaps, strictly necessary, but neither David nor I have said a thing. If it's violating some rule in the bylaws, then I'm not going to turn either of them in.

"Better." His thin smile says she's still not doing good, though, and I hesitate.

"Are you guys going anywhere tonight?"

"No. She's…wanted to stay in the past few days."

I don't blame her, but locking herself in her room for days on end, watching movies with Simon, and stuffing herself on Girl Scout cookies, while endlessly entertaining, isn't good for anybody. "Why don't you and Minzy take some of the younger ones to a hockey game or something? Or, isn't there something going on downtown? Maybe at the library? Check it out, will you? We all need more fun lately."

The smile widens; his accent fades a little. "Cheers, Dr. Carter."

I look down at my folder, but rather than leave, Simon sprawls in the chair opposite mine, and folds his hands on his stomach, watching me through his glasses. I glance back at him, and pull my own (reading) glasses off my face. "Is there something else?"

"This place is pretty close, isn't it?"

I look at him, and bite the end of my glasses thoughtfully. "You're not asking obvious questions just for the fun of it, are you? Because I kind of have to call Matt into my office in twenty minutes, and I need to be updated on her report by then."

"She doesn't have much of a report." His eyes are sharp behind the lenses. "Can I speak out of turn for a second, Dr. Carter?"

"Bridget."

"Dr. Carter," he emphasizes. "Can I?"

"What the hell. Go ahead."

"I heard you and Dr. Poole talking about your offer. From the police department?" Damn. I should have been quieter. Of course Simon was there that morning – he's here every morning by seven-fifteen, working on organizing the files. "I was wondering whether or not you're going to take the job."

I roll my pencil between my fingers, and open Matt's file, scanning it. Mostly David's been working with her until now, not me, and it looks like she hasn't said much; at least, not anything of value. Nothing we can use to help her. "I don't know whether or not I'll take the job, Simon. It's something I'm considering." Or arguing with myself over. Whichever term is more applicable. "Why do you ask?"

He drums his fingers against his belly. "If you decide to consult for them, what does that mean for us?"

"It means that I'll be working cases that I choose to work on, analyzing crime scenes, possibly interviewing suspects." I hesitate. "It'll probably mean you taking on more work, and us needing a few more volunteers than we have, because I won't have as much time as I do now. But I'll still be working with the kids here, and living in the Safe House; I'll just be on call for the NYPD as well."

"Hm." Pause. "Do you want to work for them?"

"It depends on how conscious I am." I watch him for a moment, and then sigh. "There are logistics that'll have to be worked out if I decide to do it that'll give me a helluva lot of headaches."

"Like what?"

"Like what if one of the kids ends up in trouble with the NYPD? Where do I stand then? Do I work at the crime lab or at the scene or do I just bring photos back here to the Safe House? Will they want me on call at all hours?" The questions are picking up steam inside my head, and even though I probably shouldn't be talking to Simon, he's here and he's listening, and I need someone to listen right now. "How will we be able to find volunteers to fill up my time slot? How often will I need to switch between jobs? Who would I be working with? And there're a billion other things that I can't think of right now, but they'll wake me up at three in the morning and then I won't be able to sleep again. It's driving me _crazy_."

"So…you've been considering it seriously then."

I open my mouth to say no. Hesitate. Close my mouth again, and pick up the Rubik's Cube. "Yeah. I guess I have."

"Have you talked to the detective yet?"

"Detective?" I push the image of Flack away. Why the hell is _he _cropping up?

"The one who gave you his card."

"Detective Taylor." I shake my head. "No. I probably should. I can't let him wait forever." And he'll be able to answer some of the questions, make my brain a little less crowded. "Don't you have things to file?"

"Probably." Simon stands, and sends me a little salute that I'm pretty sure is sarcastic, but there's too much of a hidden smile on his face for me to be sure is mocking. "Let us know when you decide, all right? And if you don't mind me saying, it'd be pretty cool to have a criminal psychologist for a boss."

The door closes behind him, and I resist the urge to brain myself on the desk. Matt's folder – and her counseling session – stretch out in front of me like a death sentence, but there's only one thing I can think.

_I miss it so much_.

* * *

><p>When I lived in Tucson, there were a few places I would haunt, regularly, when I had to think. Himmel Park, a few blocks away from my house as a kid, was one of them. Another was the main library downtown, and my high school theatre building, where I could sing without anybody bothering me.<p>

Here in New York, it's Ellis Island. I join the crowd of tourists pouring into the building, ignoring the chatter and the illicit snapping of photos on cell phones, and for the first time in what feels like days, I can take a full breath. I make a beeline for one of the benches, watching the people from Kentucky and Colombia and Japan and a million other places milling around, studying the photographs, reading the blurbs about the trials and tribulations of immigrants through American history, and wonder if there's one native New Yorker in this room. The first time I visited, I'd convinced Aiden to tag along, and she rolled her eyes all the way through it.

When it comes to places to think, Ellis Island isn't the quietest. It isn't even close to quiet, most days; in fact, if it's not screaming children, it's arguing adults, and if it isn't arguing adults, it's people chattering in languages I don't understand, oftentimes at the tops of their lungs. _And _it costs me a mint to get in there every time I need to think.

I don't know what it is about the place that lets my mind unravel, releasing my subconscious from its constant paralysis to finally come forward and tell me what _I_want, as opposed to what the world wants for me, but it's almost magical. I sit on one of the benches, and I watch the people go by, and the answer presents itself. I figured out my life here. I decided to become a psychologist here. I decided to break up with Lukas here. I decided to move permanently to the city on this same bench. I remember because of the picture across from me.

It wasn't a very difficult decision, but it took a long time to make, especially because it had been during Rosario's first and last visit, almost three years ago now. I'd been barely twenty-four, bachelor's degree and cop diploma in hand, coming back for a visit after the Castro arrest. Mayday had been here too, pinning herself in the hotel room, refusing to like the city that had stolen my heart away. Then again, my sister's always been that way. Anything that I love, she's just as determined to hate.

_Okay, Ellis…work your magic_.

I'd left Tucson because working as a CSI had become too hard. Too much blood. Too much pain. I hadn't been able to take it any longer. No matter what Prescutti and the others might think, the Castro case had had nothing to do with it. (Well, if I'm being totally honest, _almost_ nothing to do with it. But I'd rather drink sulfuric acid than admit that aloud.)

I joined the police in order to make a difference, and I'd only been able to show up after a crime had been committed. After the rape was over and done with. After the bodies were on the floor. We were nothing but the clean-up crew. Maybe, if I'd stayed a beat cop, it would have been different. I would have been able to stop something, instead of figuring out what happened afterwards. End a murder before it started. But the degree and the passion had dragged me into lab work, into psychological analysis, and even if I didn't regret that, I hated what it had done to me. And Tucson had never been home. In every year I'd spent there, from birth until the day I graduated and then a year and a half in my early twenties working crime scenes – because of my parents, because of Rosario, because Mayday had needed me and then bitch-slapped me for coming to help her – it had been a struggle to get through another season, another year. I've never been able to stand it, and it's one of the many things that have driven me and my parents apart.

New York has always been different. I came alive here. The wide open spaces that had made me so lonely, the things I could only tolerate in photographs are now just that – photographs. I'd never liked driving, never trusted myself behind the wheel; now I don't have to drive. There's all kinds of art here, a cacophony of languages and lights. And there are people here who need me, a place where I can make a difference: the Safe House. I don't just live here, I _thrive_ here. I'm home.

So if I'm not suffering through every day I spend in this city, then…what? If I start working crime scenes again, will it end up different? Will it break my heart the way it did last time? Am I strong enough now to handle it, the way I wasn't when I was twenty-three and so stupidly idealistic that I thought I could save every stripper, set free every addict, catch every criminal? I'm not stupid enough to believe that people are all good, and never have been, but I was a romantic and thought I could change everyone to be as close to good as possible. And figuring out that I couldn't was the hardest lesson for me to learn. Almost as hard as looking into the darkness of the human soul, every single damn day of my life, and trying to come out unscathed.

Because the truth is, you don't come out of things like that unscathed.

A little girl darts through the crowd, chasing her brother towards the sign-in book, the one that's filled with names of immigrants whose descendants still live in New York today – Irish names, Chinese names, Swedish names, rainbow names and names that are flavored with every ice cream possible. She stops and looks at me for a moment, and then grins at me. Her two front teeth are missing. "I like your shirt. It's funny."

It's one of the I'm-not-a-kid-but-I-really-am shirts I have stashed away in my drawers: a comic strip of Babar the Elephant standing behind a librarian, both of them towering over a small child. _So, return your library books on time…or Babar breaks your finger._

"Thank you," I say, dipping my head graciously, and eye her own T-shirt, which is cotton-candy pink and decorated with lollipops. "I like yours too."

She beams at me, and then runs away again, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Her brother, probably twelve to her eight, is clearly too cool for the room; he shushes her and glances at his parents, half-guilty, half-irritable at being saddled with his kid sister. It reminds me of Mayday and me, back when she was ten and I was nine. I'd call her Mayday and she'd get so angry with me, because she _hated _that nickname. Still does, if I remember. May, Maybelle, Miss May, all of those were fine, but Mayday? I still have the scar on my arm from the time I called her Mayday to her face at her thirteenth birthday party.

I lace my fingers behind my head, and stare up at the high, sweeping ceiling. Psychologically speaking, I'm pretty sure that seriously thinking about taking a job in a crime lab after all it did to me last time is indicative of some sort of severe mental deviation, but if it is, there's not much I can really do about it. It's like Aiden's sad addiction to pulp fiction; she probably hates herself for it, because of the way she turns the spines to the wall so no one can see she reads them, but she reads them anyway, and that's what matters. It's a need, a craving – only she craves fluffy, plotless romances and I crave violent crime.

Well, we both crave violent crime. Only she had the guts and the cast-iron _cojones_ to stay with it, and I didn't.

In all actuality, I shouldn't even be considering working crime scenes again. After the wreck I turned into last time, just thinking about it is enough to stick me in a straitjacket and throw me into a padded room. But Simon has it right – I'm considering it, and I'm seriously considering it, and what I thought when I discussed it with David was right – I'm really, really not good at picking healthy things for myself. I don't know if it's the way I was raised (or not raised) or the way I'm so used to walking towards the darkness that I no longer care how close I am, but it's true.

I mean, seriously. Out of all the jobs I could have chosen to help people – resettling refugees, working as an _actual_ clinical psychologist, or, hell, even teaching autistic kids how to ride like my sister does – I head straight for at-risk youth. I work sixteen to twenty hours a day with teenage drug addicts, prostitutes, gangbangers, runaways. I'm pretty much asking for my heart to get broken no matter where I go. I could be working as a singer in a high-end jazz club, for God's sake, and I spend my days and nights acting like a dorm mother to a bunch of rowdy, possibly law-breaking teenagers. It's endless, and sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder what's happened to the kids who vanish. The ones who stop coming. Are they dead on the street somewhere? Are they using again? Did their parents take them home, or did a social worker hunt them down and put them into foster care? And it's rare, very, very rare, for me to ever hear the full story. And it drives me _crazy_.

But the thrill that still glows inside my chest for helping solve another crime…no. That's not just me being excited about something new, some ending that I helped bring about, some bastard I helped stick in jail. That's the same glow people get when they greet an old friend, visit a park they haven't been to in years, watch their favorite movie from when they were kids. I've missed working crime, and how sick is that?

_Focus, Bridge._

Yeah, so…it's kind of twisted. So are a lot of things, none of which are the point right now. The point is deciding, I already know that no matter what I decide, I'm not giving up my job at the Safe House. It means too much to me, the people there, the way kids' faces light up when they realize they might have a protected place to go after all. Even if some of those kids break my heart, I wouldn't give up the rest of it for the world.

The little boy in the photo across from me is staring at me, almost accusingly, with big dark eyes. It's a black and white photograph, probably pre-World War One; I wonder what the boy's name was, who he became. If he stayed in New York or moved on.

No matter which path I choose, I'm going to end up heartbroken. I'm scathed. I didn't walk out of Tucson for no reason, after all. So if it's going to happen either way, does it matter whether or not I do it in the Safe House or in the crime lab? Or if I do it by going back to Tucson, for that matter? It's the difference between too much love and too much pain. Anything in excess can destroy you.

So if I balance it, will it work out better for me this time?

And there's something I haven't considered. Working as a consultant will be different than working as a CSI. I'll have different rules, work different hours; I can walk away from a case if I don't want to deal with it any longer. Like Mac said – go over a few files, observe a few interviews, give my professional opinion on the layout of a room.

But I know me. I know me better than I want to know me. That won't be enough; eventually I'll want to get back into it. I won't be content looking at pictures, trying to figure out what happened; I'll need to visit the scenes. I'll need to talk to the suspects, and won't that make my day a pool of sunshine. I can't be peripherally involved. I'm not good at peripheral; I'm not good at second-hand. I need to _be there_, otherwise it won't make as much sense. I won't be able to focus.

Aiden's already sent me an email, even though she's on the clock, making it clear that it's my decision whether or not to work at the crime lab, no matter what she wants. For a little while, I'd thought that was a warning to back off; when I read through it a third time, though, it had almost turned into a plea. Aiden wants me there, if no one else does. Unlike in Tucson, I won't totally be alone this time. It's a nice feeling.

That's another thing – if I end up working at the crime lab again, then I'll have to learn a whole new environment. Who works where. Who leads, who follows. It's not a bad thing, necessarily, but it's intimidating, the same way cops showing up at the Safe House is intimidating for the kids inside.

There are some questions that only Mac can answer – who would I be working with, what my hours would be if I joined up, whether I'll be on call or set on eighteen-hour shifts like Aiden and the others. Which, of course, means a call to Mac. My cell phone suddenly feels like a coal sitting in my pocket, or a gun, waiting to blow someone's brains out.

Okay, gross image.

I swear under my breath, making a few of the tourists look at me with enormous eyes, and scrub my hands through my curls, irritated. I should have drawn up a list of pros and cons – it would be infinitely easier than this…inner argument.

But is it even really an argument? All the normal considerations that you think about when considering a job – energy, time, permanent or temp – none of that factors into this at all. It's not even a question of money – if the Safe House needs more, I can always go back to Gina's and make two hundred and fifty bucks a night singing for a bunch of theatre nerds. So I can't leave this question to be settled by the bills. This is all me. I'm the one who has to decide. Nothing and nobody else.

So, why? Why would I choose to walk into something that almost destroyed me the last time? Why would anyone choose to work with the dead? To stare at the darkness of the human soul, to roll out of bed every day and know that at some point, they're going to be called in to another murder, another rape, another assault. To be forced to look into the cruelty and the bestiality and the brutality of humanity – no, not even be forced, but _choose_ to look into it. So they can what? Make a difference? When there's so much backlogged evidence that you have to swim through DNA samples just to get to one case? When there are more crimes than any crime lab could ever handle? When murderers and rapists and thieves get away with crimes every day, because there isn't enough data to convict them? To be spat at and cursed by the people they try to help, insulted by witnesses and accused of everything under the sun by the families of the people whose murders were never solved? So _why_?

I remember asking my uncle, once, why he'd spent almost thirty-five years as a homicide detective. It had been when I'd been tangling with the criminalistics vs. psychology question, the one that had driven my parents crazy. He'd looked at me, a heavy weight in his eyes, and taken my hand, and said, "There were a lot of reasons, Bridge. We all had a lot of reasons. The only one I can remember now, though, is real easy. I wanted to keep the people I cared about safe."

Keeping the people I care about safe. Keeping others safe. Is that it? Would this work have broken my heart if it wasn't, at least, part of my equation? I don't know. I know I'll be lying if I say that's the only reason, but it might be one of them.

David, Minzy, Simon, the rest of the kids at the Safe House.

Aiden and Gina and the other friends I've made here in New York.

My sister back in Tucson, and her daughter, and our parents.

Connor, at Tully's, and Clary, our lawyer.

The barista at the coffee place down the street, who's always a bit flirty. I think his name is Alan. Or Alex. Or something. Flirty Guy.

The little girl who likes my shirt.

The kids who play basketball down at the Y.

The nameless people I bump into getting on and off the subway.

And I realize, as names and faces flash in front of my eyes, that I've made my decision a long time ago.

It's just not the right one.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor edits made.

No Flack this chapter...:'(

**Lady-Buster: **Their interactions are so much fun to write, it's almost criminal. :)

**bjg**: New reviewer! I'm glad you like it so far. :)

**yaba**: When it comes to the psychology thing, I'm firmly in the 'it's a science' camp, so it drives me absolutely _crazy _when I hear people talk about it like it's not. In some ways, it's even more difficult than the other sciences, because of that unquantifiable aspect; people are using their brains to learn about brains and minds and motivations, and that's damn difficult for anything, let alone psychology. I'm hoping to bring in other similar issues; as of now, they're unidentified, but they're lurking in the back of my brain, and should come to the forefront sooner or later.


	6. Crash Landing

**1.6**

I'm dreaming about alley cats when someone knocks on the door to my room, tentative, almost silent. Over two years of working with kids snaps me awake anyway. I lay there for a second, hoping I misheard it and doubting it totally. "Who is it?"

Hesitation. "C'n I come in?"

Young voice. Male, meaning no entry. It takes me a second to force myself up out of bed and grab my bathrobe, swinging it around my tank-top and short-shorts. (See? Hang around with a bunch of teenagers, you start dressing like them.) Taquito's standing outside my door when I open it, his hands bunched into fists in the pocket of his torn hoodie. There's a ripe bruise forming around his eye, and his lip is about the size of a roll of dimes. "Oh my God, honey, are you okay?"

He can't look at me, but even in the dark I can tell that his eyes are red-rimmed. Taquito is only about twelve, but he's short for his age, and kind of a target with his big eyes and dark curly hair. He looks at me for a moment, his fists clenched tight, and says, "Minzy said come t'you if somethin' like this happened."

"Minzy said right." I'm the only one who knows where the first aid kits are. Scissors, rubbing alcohol – nothing I want teen runaways to get their hands on. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, okay? You want some hot chocolate?"

He doesn't speak, but he limps after me down the stairs and into the kitchen. I detour for the main desk – the first aid kit's buried under some files in one of the locked drawers – before putting some milk on the stove and washing my hands in the sink. Taquito sits stiff on one of the chairs, his eyes fixed on the wall above the refrigerator. When I ask him to take off his hoodie, his face flickers, but he obeys. His bruises are dark, patterned like a chain link fence, and I dip one of the cotton balls in alcohol, dabbing at the cuts.

I haven't talked to Taquito after Flack interviewed him. I hadn't talked to him much before that, either; he avoids both David and I, keeping his mouth shut when we're around. I'd heard more words come out of his mouth in the past ten minutes than he'd directed at me the whole six months he'd been ducking in and out of the Safe House.

He winces, and I pull back. "Sorry. Bet it stings."

A little shrug is my only answer. He really doesn't want to talk to me. Every second he's sitting in that chair, I can see his face getting smoother, more like ceramic; I can almost see his jaw locking.

"I know that the other kids call you Taquito." I check his lip. It's fat, and it's going to be difficult for him to talk for a few days, but luckily he didn't bite it too badly; it won't bleed in the night. "Don't think I've ever heard your real name."

I have. But I don't think he knows that. He looks at me for a second, and then wets his lips and squinches his good eye shut at the pain of it. "…Charlie."

"Okay, Charlie. I'm gonna have to check your ribs. It looks like you hit the fence pretty hard." I meet his eyes. "D'you mind?"

Wordlessly, Charlie shakes his head, and I run my fingers along his sides, thankful for first aid classes that David made me take. He winces when I press the eighth rib, but there's no shift; nothing broken that I can tell. His knuckles are split; he fought back. "They did a bit of a number on you, didn't they?"

He shifts uncomfortably for a moment.

"Did you see their faces?"

"No," he answers immediately. Which means he probably knows who they are, and they're probably in the Safe House. I discount Minzy, as well as the twins – Willow, Wilder, and Taquito (Charlie) are completely inseparable. Besides, neither of them have the body strength to kick someone hard enough to almost crack a rib.

It could be any of the other older kids though. Some of them I don't even know their names, they're that ethereal, and if they had a reason to, they could really beat the crap out of someone. I smear Neosporin over the cuts on his hands, and wrap gauze around them, ignoring his mild exclamation. "So…did they tell you why? Or did they just knock you down and start kicking you?"

Charlie almost bolts. I tighten my grip on his wrist, and study him with the look that Aiden's dubbed 'The Laser." I don't know quite what it is that I do, but people give me answers when I look at them that way. Another few seconds of squirming, and then he mumbles something that I don't catch.

"You're gonna have to speak up, I can't hear you."

"…thought I ratted 'em out."

"Ratted who out?"

Silence.

"Charlie." Charlie jumps a little at his name, and I wonder how long it's been since someone's called him anything other than 'Taquito.' Which is a stupid name, now that I think about it. Who names themselves Taquito? I finish with the gauze, and eye the bad scrape on his arm, wondering if I should be taking photographs. "Ratted who out?"

Silence again. I try a different tack.

"To the cops? You mean to Detective Flack?" When he nods, I bite the inside of my cheek. "Did you tell them why you were talking to him?"

He grunts. At least it's a step up from silence. I stand, and take the milk off the heat, pouring it into two mugs before adding a packet of Swiss Miss (I know, sacrilege, but there's nothing else in the pantry at the moment) into each. If he was older, and if it was later in the day than two A.M., I'd probably give him coffee or brandy. But he's not, so I don't. "Careful of your lip."

Charlie stares at the mug I hand him as though it's grown fangs. I sip mine, and return to Neosporin and bandages. "How long did you wait to come in here?"

"Hour." He shrugs. I don't ask what the hell he's doing on the streets at one in the morning, because he won't tell me. It's a miracle he wasn't mugged or worse. I grab one of David's plaid shirts off the pile of laundry on the dining table, and hand it to him. "Don't put that hoodie back on. It's ruined. We'll get you a new one," I say, before he can protest. "There should be one in the back of someone's closet that you'll like."

Silent treatment again. I lean back in my chair, and nudge him with my foot. "Drink your hot chocolate."

He takes the mug, but doesn't drink from it. He just holds it, letting it thaw his hands, and I set mine on the table. "Charlie, first thing I want to say is you did right to talk to Detective Flack. I don't care what the other kids say or do about it. That poor woman in Jefferson Park deserves to have her murderer brought to justice, and you were doing your part to help with that. So, on her behalf, I'm thanking you for what you did."

Charlie shrugs a little, and winces when his ribs shift.

"Second thing I want to say is I'm sorry I wasn't able to talk to you before now." His eyes snap to me. "We've been trying, you know, me and Dr. Poole, but you always slip away before we can get a word in edgewise. I've been wanting to ask you how you're doing."

"'m fine."

"Nobody can be fine after seeing what you did. People three or four times your age have gone to therapy for less." Charlie traces his sneaker along the ground, not looking at me again, and I tap him under the chin, lightly. "Hey, look at me. It helps to talk about things like this."

"You don't know," he snaps, and his voice is louder than I've ever heard it. "You weren't there."

"I analyzed crime scenes for a while, Charlie. I know what that looks like. Even seeing the aftermath…that gave me nightmares." Charlie's eyes get big, and he stares at me, his sneaker pattern forgotten. "I had the same job as Stella. You know? Except in Arizona."

"You did?"

"I don't tell the kids here because I don't want you guys to freak out. I know most of you don't like cops very much. Even ex-cops," I add wryly, as color flares in his cheeks. "I know you talked with Detective Flack, but you didn't really tell him much. I was wondering if you could talk to me."

Charlie sips his hot chocolate, and watches the mini-marshmallows bob in the dark liquid. There's only the stovetop light on, and it casts dappled shadows over the walls, his face, making the bruising look worse than it probably is. The floor creaks upstairs; someone else is up. Probably Minzy; I've heard her wandering around a lot at night lately. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, and then takes a shaky breath. He starts trembling.

"What happened, Charlie?" I say, in a low voice. When he looks at me again, those big dark eyes are filled with tears, and his hands are clenching and unclenching, as though he's forcing his own heart to beat.

Then he starts talking.

When he'd had the interview with Flack, Charlie had talked a lot – but he'd talked in circles. He'd gone off on tangents; he'd repeated some things and avoided others. It was part of the reason Flack had left with a promise to return, I knew that already. Now it was everything, from beginning to end, tangents set aside, the words pouring out of him like pus from a wound.

He'd been wandering Jefferson Park looking for quarters. Sometimes people leave them in pay phones, or they fall out of wallets onto the sidewalk; a lot of the kids pick up change and dollars they see on the street. It could mean the difference, for the homeless, between a slice of pizza and an empty stomach. A lot of times there aren't a lot of other change-hunters out in the early hours of the morning, so he made sure to stay up all night to get a fresh look at everything.

The jogger – her name had been Gwen Meyer – had passed him on her way into the park. She'd stopped to ask him if he wanted a few dollars. He'd taken the five dollar bill and tucked it into his pocket, thanking her a few times. She'd smiled, and jogged on. He'd been able to hear the song on her iPod, _Go Your Own Way_ by Fleetwood Mac. "My dad used to be an oldies guy, that's how I know what song it was."

There had also been a tattoo on her hand; he pulls some paper from the printer and draws it for me. It looks almost like an eye.

He followed the path for a little while, mimicking the footsteps of Gwen Meyer, before crawling under a nearby bench to look for more quarters. (A quarter saved is worth more than a quarter on the sidewalk, after all.) He saw the man in the hoodie go by a minute or two after that, walking fast, and something had been weird about that, so he followed them both.

It started to rain.

His voice grows steadier, rather than shakier, as he continues. He still has the five dollars in his pants pocket, and he takes it out and shows it to me; something he hadn't done with Flack. He followed the big man in the black hoodie, ignoring the rain, even though it made it difficult for him to see. He could hear shouting, the jogging woman and a rough voice, like the voice of a smoker; he hid behind one of the trees to watch. He could barely hear over the rain, but he caught words. _Where is it? What have you done with it?_

He saw the man's face; there were lots of little pockmarks, acne scars, and he had blue eyes. The jogging woman pushed his chest, forcing him away from her, and started to walk off. He grabbed her arm. She drew a knife and slashed his arm with it.

The man shot her – once, twice, three times – and ran.

He's crying, though I don't think he realizes it. I wipe a few of the tears away, careful of his black eye, and then brush his hair out of his face. Charlie doesn't seem to notice. "Then what?"

"I checked her pulse."

His voice is toneless now. "I checked her pulse to see if she was okay. There was blood…" He rubs his forefinger and thumb together, as though remembering. "I had to wash my hands."

"Did you call the police?"

"I used the quarters I found." He takes a deeper breath, and then a deeper one still. "I used the quarters. But I should have done something. I should have _done _something."

"If you'd gone out there, you would have been killed too. And I'm glad you weren't." I search his face. "Have you told your parents?"

"No," he says, and begins to cry in earnest. "They don't know. I can't go to sleep because I see h-her staring at me and her face is half gone and they don't even _know_."

"Are you scared?"

Charlie nods. He wipes his eyes, and flinches when he hits the bruise wrong. "He s-saw me. He saw me. I know he saw me."

"Even if he did, sweetie, he can't find you. No, listen to me." I shifted, from my chair to the couch next to him, and tuck my ankle under my thigh. I don't touch him. "He has no idea who you are. No idea _at all_where to find you. We're across the city, in a place he'll never be able to touch you in. Besides, there are eight and a half _million_ people living in the city. How's he gonna find you – little old you – in eight and a half million?"

Charlie looks at me for a moment. He closes his eyes. I reach out and stroke his hair, gently; he's shaking worse than I was, the first day I went back to the 12th. "Trust me, okay? Trust me. He won't find you. And even if he does, I'll kick his ass. All right? He won't touch you."

"You can't promise that."

"I can promise you that before he can get to you, he'll be going through me. And if that means he has to throw me into the East River wrapped up in chains with my mouth and nose duct-taped closed so I suffocate, he'll be throwing me into the East River before he ever even gets to _think_about getting near you. Okay?"

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods, and I put my arms around him, letting him cry until the hot chocolate goes cold, and David comes downstairs to see what the problem is.

Charlie stays on the couch that night. I sleep curled up in the chair, and when I wake up at the buzz of the cell phone on the table, I realize that he's held my hand all night. Neither of us have let go.

* * *

><p>The combined 12th Precinctcrime lab looks just the way I remember – fabulously crowded. And, honestly, it's not all that far from the Safe House. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but either way, I pretty much walked here, and now my feet hurt because I haven't worn these boots in an age and why did I come here in person, again?

I dodge a hobo shouting at the top of his lungs as I sign the visitor's sheet at the receptionist's desk. The woman behind it has enough piercings to set off an airport metal detector, _and _the one next to it. She slides the visitor's pass over to me with a scowl, and blows a bubble of pink gum.

I clear my throat. "Um, I'm here to see Detective Flack."

"Do I look like a walkin' compass?" Her accent is all Bronx. "If you wanted to talk to a detective, you should've made an appointment."

"I don't have his number."

She snaps her gum. "Too bad. Wish _I _had his number. Man has a fine ass."

This is _not _something I want to hear this early in the morning. I grit my teeth. "Then is Detective Burn here?"

Another snap of the gum. "No."

If I could yank one of her earrings out, I would. "Where's Detective Taylor's office, then?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not a map." She shrugs. "Find one of the lab rats, they'll be able to tell ya."

"Look, just give me the floor, I'll figure it out from there."

She's ignoring me now. I'm no longer interesting. "Yo, Fozzi! Get the hell outta here!"

It's the hobo she's shouting at. "I've come to file a complaint, ya tightass bitch! The state of New York subway –"

"Isn't our damn problem, so get outta here and let us do our real jobs before I kick your ass up between your ears!" She glares at me. "What else do you want, an armed escort? You're holdin' up the line!"

There's not much else I can do. I sigh, shake my head, and slide through the cacophony, hoping I can spot someone I recognize. Danny maybe. Dr. Hawkes. Stella. I'm pretty sure receptionists are supposed to be friendlier than the one currently bellowing at Fozzi the Angry Homeless Man back in the foyer.

Like Miss Piercings said, Aiden's desk is empty. She's probably still out working her new case. Another quick scan of the room reveals no familiar faces. Even though I don't really have an appointment, and I don't have any cases to work yet, a curl of anxiety starts twisting my stomach into knots. Every second I'm here is eroding my iron will not to take the consultancy job. I haven't quite told Mac yet, but…I'll get to it. Today.

As soon as this is done with.

I'm here for Charlie, I tell myself. I'm here for Charlie, not anything else, and if I get back to the Safe House without talking to Flack about what he saw, then not only will I feel like crap, but whatever trust Charlie's put in me will be gone. This is the most progress we've made with him in six months, and I'm not about to give that up just because Flack. Isn't. Here.

Rat bastard that he is.

I could sit and wait at Aiden's desk – after all, she has to come back sometime – but first of all, I don't particularly want to, and secondly, I have to get back to the Safe House by noon; that leaves me two hours to find someone, tell them Charlie's story, and get home before I'm officially late for my own appointment with Clary. And it'll take a while to get back across the city, by taxi or subway.

Part of my brain – I think it's the rational part, but from the way it's been acting lately, it's lost that distinction – is screaming at me for showing up uninvited. It's true: I could just call Aiden, I suppose. Get Flack's number. Turn over the info. Never have left the office. Never tested my resolve. But I hadn't been able to stand staying in the Safe House today; I could still smell the blood in the kitchen from Charlie's cuts, and the scent had followed me around the house until I escaped out the front door.

The bigger part of my brain, the not-so-rational part, squashes that memory flat. I'm here now, and that's all there is to it.

…I'm also lost.

I rake a hand through my hair. Without realizing it, I've gone wandering, and now I don't have a clue where I am. I'm probably on the twelfth floor – I think I remember getting on the elevator and getting off where it stopped, ignoring the prickling of panic inside my skin, hoping I'd find someone or something that I would recognize. Maybe run into Flack or Aiden or Danny or Stella by chance. _You idiot, Bridget_. I don't know this place, and I don't know anyone or anything in any direction I look. I'm also not supposed to be here, from the funny looks I'm getting. I turn around, looking for a helpful sign that says _Elevator_ or _Exit_ or _Annoying detective this way_, and bump into something hard.

_Oh, I did _not _just walk into a wall._

But I haven't, it turns out. Something clatters to the floor, and one of the scientists swears under his breath. Thankfully, the evidence is still in his arms; it's his files that hit the ground, sending pictures and papers everywhere. We both talk at once.

"Oh, hell –"

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry –"

"Don't worry about it, it was an accident." The man glances at me, and then his eyes flick away, shyly. He reminds me a little of Charlie, even though he's older, and his hair is much lighter. There's a sort of air around both of them, quiet, anxious. "I'm always crashing into people."

I crouch down next to him, grateful I decided to wear my good pants today instead of a skirt, and begin to collect some of the papers, ignoring his protests. "I'm the one who was wandering around like an idiot." In a mutter, I add, "I was stupid to come here anyway."

He looks a bit startled, but makes no more objections; he opens one of the files and begins tossing papers back inside. "Um, if you need help finding the way downstairs, I can take you down there…?"

"Oh." I sit back on my heels. "Actually, I was looking for someone. You probably don't know them."

He tilts his head in a silent question. I hesitate for a second – _if there's anyone random I can trust, it's a scientist I run into in the crime lab _– before saying, "You don't know Detective Flack, do you?"

"Don Flack? Sure. He's…talking to Mackenzie, I think. In Toxicology."

"And what floor is this?"

"Trace."

"I see."

His files collected, the scientist gets to his feet again, and holds out a hand. I take it, and let him pull me up. "Were you supposed to meet up with him, or…?"

"Nah. Kind of unexpected. I just…I wanted to talk to him about a case, but if he's busy, then I don't have to –"

"You're Dr. Carter!" He bursts out, and nearly drops his files again in his excitement.

I wince. "Please don't call me that."

"I saw you at Aiden's birthday party last Friday, but only for a second." I blink – I don't remember him at all – but he's still talking. "Aiden said you might start consulting for us! It's nice to meet you. The whole place is keyed up because we finally have a psychologist working for us again! Kendall really wants to talk to you, she minored in psychology and she hasn't had a chance to work the forensic side yet. And Aiden's mentioned you a lot before now, so it's kinda like we all know you already because of all the stories –" He shuts his mouth, and his eyes flick to the floor again. "And I'm babbling."

I look at him for a moment. Laughter bubbles in my mouth. "I don't think anybody's ever been that excited about meeting me before. _Ever_."

He mumbles something under his breath, and shifts his grip on the files in his arms. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't worry about it. It's kind of nice." I hold out my hand. "And you can call me Bridget, I'm not much a fan of the title."

"I'm, um, Adam. Adam Ross." His grin is timid, almost as timid as Minzy's was when she first showed up at the Safe House, and I make sure to hold his gaze as we shake. "If…if you wanted to talk to Flack, I can take you to see him."

"That would be great. I think 'lab' here stands for 'labyrinth,' not 'laboratory.' I'll probably end up lost again."

"Okay, just lemme –" I lunge forward and seize one of the files, before he can drop them all again. "Thanks. Um. I need to drop these off and then I can take you there."

"Fine by me."

I wait by the elevator for Adam to finish his errand – dropping off results with one of the detectives he's working with – before he joins me in the (itty-bitty, stupidly dangerous, skin-crawlingly freaky) elevator and punches the button for the twenty-second floor. He chatters the whole way along, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes wildly enthusiastic. There's at least one lab for each of the forensic disciplines – trace, toxicology, entomology, anthropology, arson investigation, firearms, fingerprinting (mostly that's a storage room for old cases with old-fashioned fingerprint cards that haven't been scanned into the system yet), document examination, voice examination, and computer forensics. And that's not to mention the multiple floors of the precinct (detectives' desks, lockup, interview rooms, etcetera) as well as the crime reconstruction rooms, meeting rooms, storage rooms, and bigwig offices. "And the morgue," he adds, "but that's in the basement."

"Isn't there the office of the medical examiner for that?"

"We've reached an agreement."

"Oh."

"Dr. Carter." It's Mac, coming out of one of the offices, one with all-glass walls and a case-board set up behind the desk. I can see photographs pasted to it: three women, livor mortis in stripes on their backs, one in a hospital bed with wide open eyes. I wonder if it's the case that's kept Aiden up at night the past few days. "Adam."

Adam's enthusiasm vanishes. "H-hello."

"I was wondering if I was going to hear from you, Dr. Carter," Mac says, an eyebrow arching in a question. I glance at Adam, whose mouth is now fixed closed. "Should I take this visit as an agreement?"

"Actually I'm here to see Flack." At his raised eyebrow, I rush, "I talked to Charlie. He had more on the Jefferson Park murder."

"Oh." He analyzes that. "Let me know your decision soon, please."

I swallow, my mouth suddenly a bit dry. I should just say it – tell him, _no, sorry, I can't do this work anymore_, right here and now – but it's like my mouth won't move. After all, I'm not going to lie to him about my decision, especially after what I've come here to do. "Of course."

His eyes flick to Adam. "Aren't you working some evidence right now?"

"Um, y-yeah, I finished, I sent you an email." Adam shifts to his toes, as though he's about to bolt. "A-And I bumped into Dr. Carter –"

"Bridget," I correct both of them.

"And I offered to show her where Flack is."

"Oh," Mac repeats. His fingers drum the door for a second; then he steps out of his office and locks it behind him. "Okay."

"I can, um, go back to work. If you want me to."

He's stammering. I touch his elbow, absently, without thinking about it, and Adam jumps like I've stuck him with a cattle prod. Mac's eyebrows go higher, but all he says is, "As long as it gets done," before walking away.

I glance at Adam. "Are…you okay?"

"'m fine." He waves a hand. "Flack's down this way."

And that's clearly all that's going to be said on the subject. I hesitate, bouncing on the balls of my feet for a moment, before following Adam down the hallway.

Flack's flirting with the pretty blonde lab tech that's analyzing what looks like a sample of cocaine next to him. He straightens up when Adam and I march in. "Dr. Carter! You stalkin' me? Should I be flattered if she's stalkin' me?" He adds to the lab tech next to him, and I resist the urge to beat his head in with my sandal. As attractive as he is, all decked out in a suit and tie, that doesn't make Detective Don Flack any less annoying. "You're not gonna be leavin' me silent phone messages next, are you?"

"You're a laugh riot, Flack. You should take your act on the road, see how other people like it." Adam ducks his head, as though to hide a smile, but I'm not sure if it's because of Flack or me. Or a mixture. "Thanks, Adam. I'm sorry for pulling you off an assignment."

"You didn't." He shrugs, and flicks a glance at Flack. There it is again, that wariness. "Um…if you come back after this?"

"I'll come say hi."

I shake his hand, and he vanishes through the door. Flack, at least, has the decency to wait until he's out of sight before saying, "Aw, that's cute. I'd sing about you two sitting in a tree, but I guess that comes later, huh?"

"Shut up."

"So…not your type."

Damn it, how the hell does he read my mind that way? "What my type is, is none of your business, Detective. Look, Charlie—"

"Who?"

"Taquito." Recognition flares in his eyes; the humor vanishes from his face. "Look, I managed to get him to talk about…what happened. He's damn scared, Flack. He says he saw the guy who did it, and he's petrified that the man's gonna come after him."

"He saw the killer?"

"He saw him. And he's terrified." I have to say it. I steel myself. "I want in on this case, Flack."

We're both quiet for a few seconds. Then Flack rocks back on his heels, a few creases appearing on his forehead; his eyebrows snap together like magnets. "You're serious?"

"I know technically I'm not working for the NYPD, but…" I draw a breath. "This is one of my kids. I promised to help him. The only way I can do that, I think, is by helping you catch this son of a bitch. So, I want in."

We stare at each other. Flack rubs the back of his neck. "You're not gonna let this one go, are you?"

"You'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands."

He sighs, grabs the results from the lab tech, and straightens up. "Then, Dr. Carter, we'd better go talk to Mac."

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor edits made.

So, yeah. I've decided I can't wait any longer to post this chapter. The week is dragging on and on. :( Stupid week.

But I saw the midnight premiere of Harry Potter! And IT WAS AMAZING! Though...I had to walk four miles in the middle of the night afterwards. Which was irritating. :( My feet still hurt.

Cool Fact: The 12th NYPD Precinct does not, in actuality, exist. It did for many years, but in 1916 it was refitted and the location is now used as a storage facility. It is, however, an incredibly popular location for TV shows; the 12th shows up in _Castle, CSI: NY, _and other police procedurals.

Which basically means I can play with it. Any. Way. I. Want. ;D

**Lady-Buster: **Honestly, I'm just glad you're reviewing, so don't worry about it! ;) And I had a chance to look at _Rules of Attraction_ and its sequel...I can send you some of my thoughts via PM if you like? I had a few.

**yaba**: Good to see you! (Well, read you.) I know that the last chapter, which was almost entirely Bridget-centric, was a bit much when it comes to FF, so I'm glad you enjoyed it! I love writing her.


	7. Compromise

**1.7**

Clary calls me within an hour of my leaving the NYPD, buzzing like a kid tripping on too much sugar. "You've doing _what _with the cops?"

"Nice to talk to you too, Clarissa. How's the baby?"

"The baby's about ready to kick through my spine in indignation. You're doing _what _with the NYPD?"

"First of all, it's a trial, one case, so don't freak out. Second of all, how the hell do you know about this already? And third…um, am I getting charged for this phone call? Because I can only pay for an hour of your time today, and I'm assuming that's in Café Latte."

"When the chief of the New York crime lab calls me on my way to our meeting to talk about scripting some release forms if you get shot or kidnapped or _killed_, it kinda rings a few warning bells, Bridget. And no. I'm not charging you. I should be, but I'm not. So don't panic."

She grunts, and I wonder if the baby's kicked her again. Clary and her boyfriend had broken up two weeks before Clary realized she was pregnant. That was almost seven months ago; she's due next month, and the baby – a girl – is about as active as an athlete training for a triathlon.

Clary's the second Biggan in Biggan, Biggan, and Poley, a law firm over on the Upper East Side. Unlike Biggan No. 1 (her brother Michael) and Poley (her brother-in-law), though, Clary works the more human side of law, as opposed to corporate business stuff. She's also the only woman in the practice. In other words, she's way tougher than me, takes no crap from anybody, and even at almost eight months pregnant she could probably kick my ass. I'm shorter than she is, after all.

"I'm sorry. I should have called you. I was going to call you –"

"Save it, cowgirl. Ifs, ands, or buts don't mean much now that it's all come out." She sighs. "I assume I can trust you not to do anything stupid until I get those documents thrashed out? Like, I don't know, throw yourself in front of a bullet? That kind of stupid? The kind of stupid you're known for and are ridiculously good at?"

I wince. "I'm sorry, Clare."

She's still grumpy, but her voice softens the slightest bit as I slide out of the passenger side of Flack's car, studying the still-erect crime scene tape around one of the benches in Jefferson Park. "If you make me go into early labor, Bridget, you're paying the hospital bills _and_ a consultancy fee. When are you going to be back?"

"Give me half an hour. Something came up."

"This something better not make me angry."

"It won't." I hope. "Go and get a coffee. Okay? I'll meet you at Café Latte in forty-five minutes." Flack's eyebrow goes up, and I clear my throat. "Maybe a little more. I'm kind of…far away…from the Safe House at the moment."

Clary grumbles a swearword or two as she hangs up the phone, and I let out a breath. It'll take me at least an hour to get back over to Greenwich Village if I'm lucky (which I might be) but it's a definite role reversal. Usually I'm the one waiting on Clary. For a lawyer, she's really not very punctual.

"Meeting your sister?" Flack sounds grumpy, and I don't blame him. He's probably been over this crime scene a thousand times already; I'm the reason we're here, not any desire of his. I shake my head.

"My lawyer. I don't pay my sister. Also, she's across the country…so…."

"Ah." His smile is thin, and dangerously mild. "Good times."

"You could say that."

"So why lawyer up? Not like you're under arrest or anything."

"It's for Minzy, actually." And Charlie, but if I say that, he'll get pissy. So I don't. "She's not quite eighteen, so…Clary will represent her if necessary."

"I see."

There's something in his voice I recognize. It's the same tone he uses when he talks about psychologists. "I'm guessing you don't have the greatest of relationships with lawyers, either."

"We have this love-hate deal goin' on. They don't mess with my cases, I don't get irritated with them. If they do, then…" he shrugs. "Doesn't end well."

I have a sudden image of Clary – five-foot-six, half-Filipino, very pregnant Clarissa – in a showdown with tall, dark, sharp-eyed Flack over a piece of evidence, a bloody sledgehammer, maybe, and have to cough to hide my laughter. "I'm glad I'm not a lawyer, then."

There are a million things he could say to that. Thankfully, he says nothing. I duck under the tape.

There's nothing really here – maybe some scuff marks – but it's enough. I wonder why Charlie chose Jefferson Park, of all places, to visit at dawn, when his parents squat in an abandoned subway tunnel all the way across the city. If that's _why_ he picked Jefferson Park in the first place.

It rained that night, I remember. Which explains the overall lack of blood.

I crouch, and then bend lower, looking under the bench. No arterial spray. Then again, Gwen Meyer hadn't been stabbed or cut – she'd been shot three times, first in the hip, then in the shoulder, then in the face. She'd pretty much been blasted to pieces before even hitting the ground; her heart would have been down for the count. Thus, no working arteries, and no arterial spray.

So why does this place feel weird?

"What else was found here?"

"Some cigarette butts. A few pennies," he adds, as I balance on the balls of my feet, staying low to the ground. I had to dress a little classy today, because of my meeting with Clary, and I hope I don't ruin my good slacks by doing this.

If I _keep _doing this, I'll have to buy more slacks. I wrinkle my nose at the thought.

"What are you even looking for?" He sounds more curious than irritable now, but I don't have an answer for him.

"I don't even know." There's the tree that Charlie said he hid behind. When I step around it, careful not to make any marks, I can see tennis shoes, imprinted into the dirt. "These must be Charlie's."

"We took impressions of those. Think they'll match your boy?"

"I don't think, Flack. I know. I've seen the soles of those shoes every day he's come in. They're Charlie's."

"Don't get antsy, Carter, I'm just injecting some reasonable doubt here."

Anger flares like a hot coal in my stomach. "Charlie has no reason to lie to me."

"I know that, so don't bite my head off, all right?" He crouches down next to me, brushing a finger over the crusted mud. It breaks under the feather-light touch. I hiss, automatically, the way I do when I see murder mysteries on TV and people touching evidence without latex gloves, and one eyebrow marches up his forehead. "They took impressions of them, Carter, don't have kittens."

He's baiting me. I bite my tongue rather than respond, and sit back on my heels. "You said we haven't tracked down the gun."

"No hits in IBIS, no suspects. You said the kid saw him?"

"Yeah."

"We'll have to call in a sketch artist."

I pull a pencil from my hair, and begin poking around in the grass, going over what Charlie already told me. I don't really have to do it – I'm sure that Aiden and the others have gone over this area with a fine-toothed comb – but I'm stuck here with Flack and I can't really look at him because it's still. So. Damn. Awkward. His eyes are drilling holes in the back of my neck as I stand, and follow the path Charlie must have taken in order to check Gwen Meyer's pulse, and then call 911.

The pay-phone hasn't been processed. Even though it's probably been used a dozen times since the murder, I still use a latex glove I filched from the crime lab to lift the phone up off the receiver, studying it under the light. There's a smear on the thing that _might_ be dried blood; there's no way for me to tell by sight or smell. Abruptly, I wish for a kit, and then dismiss it. _This is not your job, Bridge. This is a favor you're doing for Charlie. And once it's over, you're done with it._

Easy to tell myself.

He's back to watching me, and it's more than slightly creepy. I get the feeling that he's analyzing, and it's unnerving to both of us – to me because I don't like being analyzed, and to him because…well. Because I'm not exactly Aiden's college friend anymore. I'm a psychologist and a potential consultant and oh, my God, _focus_, Bridget.

There's a pale brown stain on the coin slot. It could be blood. I don't know. It's enough to rope this thing off. "You don't happen to have any crime scene tape, do you?"

"In the back of the car."

"Can you get it?"

We run some tape over the phone booth, and Flack calls it in before returning to his game of Stalk Bridget. I get the feeling that the CSIs he usually works with are a lot more talkative than I am; my stubborn silence is probably driving him crazy. A minute longer, and even I can't stand the quiet anymore; I start talking, going over what Charlie told me, knowing that I'll probably have to convince the poor boy to talk about it again, and maybe again, not only to Flack but to a sketch artist and, possibly Clary, if the situation comes right down to it. Flack remains silent until I'm done with the recap, and then lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Did he hear what they were arguing about?"

"He said the man kept on shouting, trying to shake her. He wanted to know what she'd done with 'it.'"

"'It.'"

"Don't look at me, I didn't eavesdrop on a murder. Could be drugs, contraband, anything. Hell, a picture of the murderer in bed with the wrong woman."

"Gwen Meyer had no links – that we can figure – to drugs or any types of smuggling. That we know of," he adds, when I open my mouth to ask. "She was just a graduate student workin' at an art gallery on the Upper East Side. Only reason she had a record was she was caught drivin' drunk a year ago, and that was after a friend's birthday party."

"So basically she's clean." I've filched a flashlight from the trunk of Flack's car, and I pull it from my pocket, flashing it against the side of the phone booth, ignoring his frown at the sight.

"So far as we know, sure."

"What does the M.E.'s report say?"

"Other than the bullet holes and a couple bruises, she was as healthy as a somewhat malnourished, overworked grad student can be. Pretty fit, apparently."

I flick off the flashlight. "I'd like to see the case file, please."

"That could be a problem."

The only way I can help Charlie is if I read through that whole case file. I know he has it, too; I saw it in the backseat of that car he drives. But he's not going to give it to me; I can see it in his face, and my whole body goes stone cold. "It wasn't really a request, Detective Flack."

"I didn't think it was."

Anger starts coiling through my blood. "But I'm not going to get it, am I?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. If you give me a good reason."

"And the fact that I'm a psychologist and might see something the rest of you don't isn't going to cut it with you because you don't _believe_ in science." I kick the wall. "God _damn _it!"

I can't help snarling some Spanish swearwords under my breath before getting creative. I've been watching too much _Firefly _again, and it shows – almost every word coming out of my mouth now is some sort of bastardized Chinese. The only good thing about it is that he has no idea what I'm calling him. I doubt he'd enjoy being outed as a frog-humping son of a bitch.

At least, I _hope _he has no idea what I'm calling him. Though…if Don Flack watches sci-fi, especially Joss Whedon sci-fi, I'll just kill myself. Here and now. I'll break the flashlight and use some of the plexiglass to slit my own throat, because that would just be too…weird.

Also, embarrassing.

I refuse to think about how much of a nerd I am, that I've spent hours memorizing grammatically odd translated Chinese swearwords from a sci-fi show that only ran for one season. I _refuse _to think about it.

It's not just Flack, though. It's all the stress of the past few days pouring out my mouth. I think he gets that – he has to get that – because he waits until I run out of steam before the eyebrow goes up again (how in hell does he do that, anyway? I don't think I'll ever learn). "Friendly, aren't you?"

"Just as friendly as you," I spit, and turn away before I say something worse. In English this time. That would be bad. Yes. Though I've already called him pretty much every name in the book. I don't know how I could get worse.

"I deserved that."

Um, excuse me, what? My mouth snaps closed; I stare at him through my hair, wondering if I've heard wrong. He rubs the back of his neck again, and I wonder if he does it when the awkwardness gets to be too much. Then I wonder why I'm wondering that, and bite the inside of my cheek. He doesn't look at me, keeping his eyes on the coin-slot of the phone booth. "Look…about the interview."

This is about the _interview?_

"I shouldn't have…well." He hesitates. "I shouldn't have snarled at you. I acted like an ass. You were trying to help and I treated you like…well. Dunno what, exactly, but…not very well."

Really now. I straighten a bit, irritated that even with my awesome boots, the top of my head is no higher than his shoulder, and wait. Flack's very focused on the wall behind me, now, staring over my shoulder.

"Yeah," I say, and his eyes snap to me again. "You kind of did. And still are."

He scowls.

"But then again, I've been acting like an asshole too," I add. "So there we go."

His mouth opens, and then closes again. He looks a bit like a gasping fish. I slap the flashlight into his palm, and wish I had a coat to hide in.

"Look," I say, and cross my arms over my chest. "I'm here to help Charlie. He's dealt with enough in his life. He doesn't need nightmares about a murderer stalking him because of what he saw. So…can we get along for the next few days? Please? At least until this is done?"

Flack straightens, and looks at me, and I wonder how the hell criminals in the interview room don't start spilling their guts at the sight of those eyes. They're the color the Arctic Ocean is supposed to be, a clear, icy blue, and they're so sharp that it's difficult to concentrate. Like being stared down by a laser. Then something, some part of that razor intensity, fades out of them; he's made a decision. Flack considers for a moment longer, and then says, "You know, you're not half-bad, Doc."

I can't help it. "Don't call me Doc."

His laugh, when it comes, is short and sharp, like a bark. Flack relaxes; his hands drop to his sides. "Fine, oh prickly one. We'll work together on this. But you're not gettin' the case file. The captain'd have my ass on a spike if I gave you the file before your clearance comes through. Which it should," he adds, before I can say anything. "Soon, if Mac has anything to say about it."

"I think you mean your head."

"No, I mean my ass, and I'd still be dangling from it. Gerrard doesn't like scientists. Or consultants."

And I don't like Gerrard, I think, but I keep my mouth shut this time. "I won't be able to help if I can't see the file."

"You can't see it. That doesn't mean I can't tell you what's _in _the file, though."

It's a fine line, an almost infinitesimal loophole…but it's there. "You'd do that?"

"I looked you up, all right, Carter?" My chest constricts; I keep my face ceramic smooth. "You were a damn good cop before you quit. Far as I can tell, for the moment, you're an asset, which I intend to use. So…" He holds out a hand. "Compromise?"

He doesn't know. Or if he does, he's not letting on. So I don't even have to think it over. I take it. His fingers are warm; the touch is a surprise. A mixture of smooth skin and calluses. "Compromise."

There's a pause, and we look at each other for a handful of breaths before he drops my hand, takes the flashlight back, and says, "So, does this mean I get to know what exactly you were callin' me? Sounded complicated, whatever it was."

"Not even if you begged me, Flack," I say, and start for the car again. After all, I have what I need.

* * *

><p>The meeting with Clary goes well, mostly because she doesn't ask me more about the NYPD thing. She's <em>very <em>pregnant; I'm surprised she's still working, when she looks so uncomfortable, but then again I'm not. Clary lets nothing and no one stop her from doing her job, not even her older brother, and she'd probably bite his nose off if he even tried to get her to stay home. I doubt, once she has the baby, that she'll take more than two weeks off; Tara (the name-for-now, though it might be changed once she actually has the little girl) will most likely become the token mascot of Biggan, Biggan and Poley. Especially since Clarissa owns a third of the loft the practice works out of. I can see it already, Clary's office. One side of it is smooth with files. The other side is sucked up by a baby's cradle, music box, and plush toys.

I'm not sure whether to feel bad for Tara or not. After all, she's going to grow up in a law firm. That's almost as bad as growing up in a loan shark's office, except you don't get nearly the same sort of clientele.

Clary wants to interview Minzy, which I've promised I'll talk to Minzy about. It's going to be an uphill battle, though. Minzy doesn't like confrontation, not even with people she's never met; when it comes to her stepfather, I don't doubt that it'll take more than a little ethical blackmail to get her to do something. I love Minzy dearly, but I'm not blind to her faults: when it comes to choosing between the right or easy paths, most of the time she takes the easy. She's never learned different; she has a lot of spunk, but her courage needs work.

The Safe House is, for once, copasetic by the time I finally return, milked of all energy. I talk to Charlie for a few minutes – he needs little convincing about the sketch artist, once I tell him that it'll help the cops get the son of a bitch – grab a banana, and start upstairs to work on the avalanche of legal paperwork that Clary's left me with.

At least, I _try _to start upstairs. There are a couple of kids sitting in the TV room as I pass it, and one of them has split knuckles. I slow down, pausing just at the threshold. I don't know some of their names – the older two only just started coming in – but the one with a black eye is called Samir. He's first generation American; his parents died during the chaos of 9/11. His mother had been a Arabic translator in the World Trade Center; his dad (who owned a Middle Eastern food store) had been beaten to death in the street in the chaos right afterwards, during the anti-Muslim (or anyone who looks like a Muslim) riots.

Samir, frankly, is a pain in the ass. Half the time, he shows up stoned or strung out on something; he's also a member of Hariyya, an itty-bitty (as of now) gang with more than a few fundamentalist Islamic views. He speaks Arabic as easily as I speak Spanish, and I'm certain he uses it to cuss David and I out if we try to talk to him. Since neither of us can speak Arabic, we can't call him on it, and it drives me _crazy_.

I met his mother, once, a Kuwaiti woman named Khadija. That's how he knew about the Safe House, why he started coming here. She'd been very gentle. One of the sweetest people I'd ever met in my life. It's probably why I've let her son stick around for so long.

It's also the only reason he keeps coming back.

"Hey," I say, and wonder why they all start laughing at the sight of me. It can't mean anything good. "What are you guys doing?"

Samir says something in Arabic, they all laugh again, and then he says, "Nothing. What are you doing?"

"Wondering what happened to your face, actually."

"I was born this way, baby," he says, and grins a bit. "God's gift."

His eyes are flat, like Mr. Lockyer's. Dark, and cold. I wonder why I haven't noticed this before. It's like visiting the crime scene has amped up all my senses; I'm buzzing, and it's been at least two hours since we left.

_It's the adrenaline_, I think, but adrenaline doesn't last this long.

"Don't flirt with me, Samir, I'm way out of your league." His friends roar with laughter, and color flares high over his cheekbones, turning his bronze skin darker. If he was twenty-five instead of fifteen, he'd probably try to punch me. But he's fifteen and skinny, and I could probably squash him with a thumb, even though he's easily half a head taller than I am. "Someone gave you a nasty shiner. And you—" I glance at his friend. "Abbas, isn't it? I have a question for you, Abbas."

"Shoot," he says, still laughing.

"Did you seriously think that he was turning you over to the cops, or do you just get off on smacking around terrified twelve-year-olds?"

All the laughter goes out of Abbas's face. They're dead still, now, looking at me. They could probably beat the crap out of me. Three against one, when I'm about five foot two and haven't gone to a self-defense class in over a year. Haven't practiced kickboxing in longer than that. I'm out of shape and out of practice. I stand my ground, though, and keep my voice razor-sharp, boulder-steady. "Listen to me. I don't know what the hell you're doing to make you think he'd rat you out to anyone. But I guarantee you, you're not doing it in my building any longer."

Samir purples, and stands. "You little _bitch_!"

"You gonna call me an infidel too?" I give him a scathing look. "You think this is the way to honor your parents? They _died _because of the people you're idolizing right now." It slips out my mouth before I can stop it. "Yeah, they'd be real proud of you. I'm sure of it."

I sidestep him before he can grab my throat, and smack him in the back with my bag. He hits the floor with a bang that has David peeping out of his office. I wave at him.

"What's going on, Bridge?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing." There's a plastic bag sticking out the back of Samir's pants. I grab it. White powder. "Samir and his coke buddies are leaving, that's all."

"You can't kick us out of here. It's a _safe house_," Abbas says slowly, as though I'm stupid.

"With rules. A safe house with _rules_. You deal, use, or bring any sort of illegal drugs onto the premises, and you are gone. No exceptions." Samir gets up. I let him. "Same goes for beating up the other kids. You touch one of them, you're done."

He snorts. "Don't try it, you stupid bitch."

My body goes ice cold. _Don't try it, you stupid bitch._ It's an echo, and he doesn't know it. If he knew, he'd have me. I bounce the baggie of coke in my hand for a moment, then tuck it into my pocket and start for the door. The TV room has no windows. It's why we made it the TV room; no glare off the screen. It also has a lockable door.

"Where the hell are you going?" Abbas says. I turn to look at him, and pitch my voice loud enough so the whole Safe House can hear it.

"David, call NYPD, will you? I think we have a few new kids for lockup."

"Sure," David says easily, and before any of them can say anything more, I shut the door and lock it behind me. There's no way they can get rid of the coke, not in that room – no toilets, no sinks, no bookshelves or sofas to hide it in, just a few chairs and a table and the TV, and I hope they don't destroy it. Property damages are something we can't really take right now, and who knows how long it'll be before we get a replacement?

I can hear them bellowing in a mixture of Arabic, English, and the universal language of pissed off teenage addict as I march into the kitchen, throw the bag of coke into a grocery bag (more so I don't have to look at it rather than to keep it from getting lost) and start on the papers that Clary left me. It's only when I punch a hole through the file with my pencil that I realize I'm trembling.

And not just because I'm angry.

_Don't you dare try it, you stupid little bitch._

* * *

><p>Believe it or not, I've only just managed to fall asleep when my cell phone rings at four o'clock in the bloody morning. (Thank you, Simon, for your bleeding Britishisms.) A last minute gig at Gina's had me rolling into bed at three-thirty after leading a chorus of all the Les Miserables songs; karaoke night at the Spotlight needs a singing, Broadway-familiar hostess, and Grace had cut out for the night. It meant two-hundred and fifty bucks, so I hadn't been one to say no.<p>

Now, however, I want to murder whoever the hell it is on the other end of the phone. The feeling intensifies when I check the caller I.D. Flack. _Holy hell, he'd better not have just sat on his phone or something, because I swear to God –_

"– I'm going to kill you," I say into the phone, and squash my pillow over my head. "Do you know what_ time _it is?"

For once he doesn't rise to the bait. "Sorry, Doc, but it's kind of an emergency."

My brain snaps to attention. I turn on the bedside light and kick the covers off, staring out the window at the moon. It's getting close to setting. I sigh. _Good morning, life. Put a sock in it._ "What kind of emergency?"

"We have another body, Doc. Battery Park this time, but…"

Ice cubes drop down my spine. Track pants, on. I put the phone on speaker and struggle to find a clean shirt. "Who?"

Slight hesitation.

"Flack, I can't help you if you don't tell me who the hell it is."

Another breath. I can almost hear the _Captain's gonna kill me for sayin' this, but…_that trails the beginning of the sentence, like the opening crawl to the _Star Wars _movies. "It's Dr. Jackson Pearce. Gwen Meyer's thesis advisor."

We're both silent for a moment. Abruptly, I wish I had a gun.

"I'll pick you up in five minutes," Flack says, and hangs up the phone.

Somehow, I can't remember telling him that I needed a ride.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor edits made.

Okay, first off: _CSI: NY _seems to be good at pushing the boundaries of things we want to think about, i.e. 9/11 and the immediate aftermath. I hope I balanced the issue with Samir appropriately. I was a little wary writing this scene, worried that a jihadist perspective might be a bit much for some people, and then I reconsidered.

Remember that season 1 takes place in 2004, only three years after 9/11; opinions were (and still are) very polarized when it comes to Islam in general, let alone jihadists. Samir isn't a terrorist or anything, simply a member of a fundamentalist Islamic gang, but fundamentalism of any kind (religious, political, etc) is an issue that I want to explore throughout_Pretending_, because it could be argued that fundamentalism is the root of a lot of issues with the world.

Also, I wanted to balance the perspective of Samir with the perspective of his parents, Khadija (who died in 9/11) and his unnamed father, who was beaten to death in the street. There were multiple hate crimes in the weeks following 9/11 all over America, against Muslims or perceived Muslims. (Sikhs, who wear turbans that are stereotypically associated with Muslims, were particularly targeted.)

All in all, I hope I did an acceptable job balancing this issue, and you can trust that it will come back up as _Pretending _progresses.

Rant done. :)

Note..._Pretending _seems to be operating on a two-chapters-per-week schedule, which is interesting because usually I only post once a week. But...Bridget is clamoring to be heard. This is my first real mystery/crime fic, so I'm learning how to balance the CSI bit with the people bit; I'm trying not to go overboard on one or the other (since the actual _CSI_shows focus too much on the violence for my taste...yeah.)

Canonically, we're about in 1.02, _Creatures of the Night_. It will go faster after Gwen Meyer's case is solved; I'm hoping to track through the seasons, with Bridge entering and leaving as she (or Flack) sees fit. I'm not going to go over every single detail of every single case already solved on TV, (though she might consult on one or two) and I'll be bringing my own cases in to add some spice. Hopefully this is okay for everyone?

**Lady-Buster:** I'm working on the PM as we speak; I have to go over my thoughts. ;) I have work and school and stuffs, so...I'll try to get it to you by Friday?

**Pecan Tweet**: Oh my good_ness_, I was so happy to open my email inbox and see all the reviews you left I nearly had a heart attack. You're amazing. ::virtual hug:: It drives me crazy when the OC and a canon character are together by like chapter 3; people simply don't react that way. I hope Bridget is believable. :) And I hope you continue to enjoy!

**yaba**: Adam may be one of my favorite characters. He's wonderful. And adorable. I just want to give him a huge hug.

I'm a junkie and reviews are my drug. ;) Feed my addiction?


	8. The Thing About War and Peace

**1.8**_  
><em>

Dr. Pearce is in his middle sixties, with still-thick silver hair and a bit of a belly that would turn him into a perfect Santa Claus. The image, though, is kind of far from anyone's mind at the moment; blood creeps down his face, like the trails of a dozen crimson slugs. There's a hole in the back of his head, though it isn't from a bullet, not that I can see. The back of his head's been crushed, not blown apart. A hammer, maybe, or a stone.

I glance away from it, my stomach churning, and hope the smell of blood doesn't linger.

"Jackson Pearce, Ph.D., professor of archaeology over at Columbia University." Flack hands Stella Pearce's wallet, content with his perusal. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at two college students, a girl and a boy; the girl's shivering, even under her boyfriend's leather jacket. "They showed up to watch the sun rise and she almost tripped over our vic."

"Which just puts a whole new meaning in romantic." Stella folds the wallet into a paper bag marked _Evidence_, and raises an eyebrow at me. "Early enough for you, Dr. Carter?"

What is this 'Dr. Carter' obsession with these people? My. Name. Is. Bridget. "I wasn't going to sleep tonight anyway."

"So many jokes, so little time." Danny sighs, and escapes before I can throw something at him. It looks like he's been awake for a while; maybe he never had the chance to go to sleep. His shirt's wrinkled and his eyes are tired.

Aiden's not here, which either means she's still working her other case – I hope not – or she's asleep back in her apartment. Lucky bitch if she is. My throat hurts from three straight hours of singing, and I still smell like Gina's cigarette smoke from the Spotlight. The scent lingers in my hair, making me cough.

"So Gwen Meyer was an archaeology student?" I ask, crouching next to Dr. Pearce to get a better look at his face. There are dents in his nose where glasses should rest; they've vanished somewhere.

"Specializing in ancient Egyptian art."

"I thought you said she worked in a gallery?"

"Day job. And according to her boss, she'd just tendered her resignation. Said she was almost done with her thesis and couldn't afford to keep working, it took time away from her projects." Stella's multitasking, talking and swiping blood at the same time; she checks the swab to make sure the sample's adequate, and then slides it down into the cardboard container. People used to ask me why we didn't use plastic, but the answer's simple; wet blood can't dry in a plastic bag. It's like sticking a damp toothbrush into a Ziplock – it stays wet, and if it stays wet, the sample can deteriorate. Cardboard and paper lets the sample breathe and dry, so it's in the best condition possible for analysis.

"What was her thesis on, do we know?"

"Hey, the only thing I know about ancient Egypt is King Tut," Flack says, and I have to confess that my knowledge on the subject isn't much better. "Accordin' to Dr. Pearce here, when I talked to him yesterday afternoon, it was…" He checks his notebook, and an eyebrow goes up. "The rise and fall of the Woman King Hatshepsut and her effect on feminist principles, from the New Kingdom to the modern era."

Danny whistles. "That's a hell of a mouthful."

It sounds interesting, whatever the hell it is. Long and complicated, but interesting. "Do we have a copy of it?" I ask, getting to my feet again and starting in circles around the body on the grass. He was shot or dumped in the middle of the Lawn in Battery Park; I can see a swing set out of the corner of my eye, and somehow I'm relieved that the body was discovered before light, and kids invaded this place.

"We have her last known draft back at the lab."

"Can I get my hands on it? Authors always show way more of themselves in their work than people ever realize. Even in technical stuff. I might be able to find something in it that Gwen didn't want us to know."

Flack and Stella exchange a glance; then Stella nods. "We'll get you a copy."

"Thank you."

"He hasn't been here long," Danny says. "Maybe a coupla hours. Judging from spatter, this is probably where he was killed."

"So this is our primary crime scene?"

"Looks like. Though…" he shines his flashlight on Dr. Pearce's wrists. There are burn marks there, tiny puckered circles. "That mighta been done elsewhere."

"What are they, cigarette burns?"

"You want a semi-uneducated guess? Sure. I'd say so. But Hawkes'll know for sure." He sits back on his heels, and lets out a breath, rubbing his forehead. "So what do we have? We have a grad student who lived in Harlem killed out on a run in Jefferson Park, and then her thesis advisor—" he gestures to the body at his feet "—who lived in Long Island City accordin' to his driver's license, killed across the city from both the university _and _our other crime scene, with a different M.O.—"

"Except for the parks."

"Except for the parks," he corrects, glancing at Stella, "but they're across the island. I mean, these might not even be related."

"Gwen Meyer was killed because she wouldn't tell her murderer where something was located," Stella says. "Maybe with her dead their next best bet was to ask her thesis advisor?"

"But why her thesis advisor? Why not her friends or roommate or—"

I think we all realize it at the same time. Together we turn, and look at the body of the Egyptology professor. Stella speaks first. "Unless it's about her thesis?"

Danny snorts. "You kiddin'? I'm sure the life and times of who's-a-ma-what's-it is deadly interestin' to a bunch of bigwig archaeologists, but 'snot something someone'd kill for."

"I dunno, Danny, people kill for a lot less. Maybe she stole the thesis from someone?"

"Why not report it? Why kill her? _And _Dr. Stuffy here." Danny shakes his head. "Not logical."

"Not everyone is a disciple of Spock, Danny."

"Live long and prosper," he says, and flashes the V-salute of a Vulcan in Stella's direction. I have to bite my knuckles to keep myself from laughing.

"Could be smuggling," Flack points out. "They were both in the archaeology department."

"Or something else to do with the school." I filch a set of latex gloves from Danny's kit and pull them on. "Has the body been photographed?"

Stella nods. "And tentatively processed. We're just waiting for the M.E. van."

"Good."

They realize what I'm doing too late to stop it; before either of them can say anything, I've pulled Dr. Pearce's left hand out from underneath his body, splaying his fingers wide. There's a little tattoo on the web of flesh between his forefinger and thumb; a mark like an eye, probably Egyptian, and like the one Charlie drew for me in the Safe House.

"The Eye of Horus," Stella says, and when we all look at her, shrugs. "Hey, I read."

"So we have a tattoo on both our vics that, so far as we can tell, has no real meaning." Danny groans. "Ah, c'mon. Tell me this isn't a cult case, Stel. _Please_ tell me it isn't a cult."

"Can't tell you that until we talk to some more people."

"I don't want it to be a cult. I _hate_ cult cases. With the brainwashin' and the…" he flares his fingers out, waggling them. "Gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Very scientific, Danny," says Stella dryly.

"You know it."

Cults. A thrill of excitement jitters down my spine. I haven't had to deal with a cult since…well, since a very long time ago, and even then, I hadn't had a chance for active study. Cults were psychologically fascinating, realistically rare and _very _private. If this was a cult…

"Statistically, it's very unlikely to be a cult," Stella says, and stands, ducking under the tape. "Gwen Meyer probably just saw her advisor's tattoo and liked it, so she decided to copy it. Besides," she adds, "if it's anything, it'll be a secret society. I don't think there are many cults in the Egyptology department at Columbia University, no matter what Dan Brown wants us to think."

I'm not sure if she's joking.

Danny cheers up significantly after this, though he's still tired and somewhat gloomy by the time he and Stella close the crime scene and head to the lab. Flack and I follow, so I can collect the manuscript – it's long, maybe three hundred and fifty single spaced pages (_single spaced!_My eyes nearly bulge out of my head). I duck out after that. They don't need me to sort evidence, after all, just to read the thesis and see if I can find out anything on Gwen's mental state.

I stop at Café Latte on the way back into the Safe House, checking the time – almost seven A.M. – with a slight sigh. There's no way I'm getting back to sleep now. So, when I slip back into the Safe House – it's still dead quiet – I settle in the TV room, which, thankfully, hadn't been completely demolished by Samir, Abbas, and their fellow druggie, and begin to read.

It's not difficult. Gwen Meyer had a nice, flowing style, more something you'd find in a well-written book than an academic thesis; it's the concepts that I'm having trouble with, and Wikipedia is pretty good for those. I don't know enough about Egyptology or archaeology or the history of feminism to know if the intellectual jumps she made were acceptable ones, but there are only a few pages with red marks on them; mostly in Dr. Pearce's handwriting I think, usually stuff like _More research required_ or _Explain this conclusion_.

She was obviously very passionate about her subject. There are notes in her handwriting as well, scrawls of blue ink, about which angle she should tackle, which sections needed expanding and which needed cutting down. I can't analyze handwriting, but it's sassy; I like the curve of her Cs and the sharpness of her Ks, and how elaborate she made her Ss.

The writing style has another few hints as to who she was; smooth and confident, as a writer and as a person, judging from the photographs I can track down online. (Her Myspace account is still active, though no one's posted anything in days.) Fairly popular in her group of friends, though it looks like her roommate's more the leader of their group, like Aiden was for the criminalists and criminologists at CUNY.

I've always been able to read fast – it comes from hours of not having anything to do when I was young, while my sister and parents went to all of Mayday's cheerleading events and gymnastics tournaments and everything. I went, and read _The Lord of the Rings_ in the back row. I think I made it through the entirety of the _Chronicles of Narnia_ during a three-day gymnastics tournament in Phoenix when I was ten.

So when David finds me a few hours later, I'm twenty pages from the end of the thesis, and scratching notes on a piece of paper I've dragged out of the printer. His eyebrows go up in surprise.

"I didn't think you'd be awake until noon."

"Had to go out early this morning."

"Oh." His eyebrows crawl into his hairline. "What are you reading? It looks like the next _War and Peace_."

"Close. Thesis."

"Not yours, is it? Because I've read that. Fascinating, but…one can only read a thesis once, y'know?"

"Laugh it up, Poole. I slaved long and hard over that damn thesis. But no, this isn't mine. This is…I'm getting a psychological background on someone through reading their thesis."

He drops down onto the couch next to me, takes the thesis, and winces at the weight of it. "Heavy reading."

"Ha. Ha. Ha." I prod him in the ribs with my toe. "Read that. Tell me what you think."

He does. And then he reads it again. And I can see the frown building in his face. Triumph burns coppery in my mouth. I knew it. I _knew_something was off about the last few pages. "You see it too?"

"Depends on what you're seeing."

"She's conflicted."

"I'd say so." He frowns. "She also likes the word 'betrayed,' which might mean something. Maybe someone was accusing her of double-crossing them? Or she felt she was being betrayed herself?"

"That's what I thought. But – her writing changes here. It's hard to make out what it could be about."

"See, that's the beautiful thing about psychology, Bridge." He closes the book and smiles. "One thing can have so many different meanings, and they can be anything from inconsequential to monumental."

"You know you're just offering more ammunition to the people who claim that it isn't a science at all when you talk that way."

"I've always been on the fence about that, Bridget, and you know it. I find it better not to make judgments about how my chosen profession is perceived by the rest of the world. After all, one of my best friends works as an M.E. in Seattle; do you think he cares whether or not it matters to other people that he cuts up dead bodies all day? No. Different people have different tastes, and that's all there is to it. If we spend our lives caring how other people see us, then we're never going to be happy."

Damn, but David can sound like a yogi sometimes. Or some other person who spends their whole life studying the process of self-actualization. I make a face at him. "I'm fine with my position, thank you. Don't go all soft on me."

"You've always been a bit too ready to defend people from things you perceive to be threats, Bridge. Yourself and others." He pats my ankle, and gets to his feet. "It's part of your charm. I'm just gonna say, watch out for the monster in the closet, because one day it's probably not gonna be there at all."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

I wait until he leaves before going back to the thesis, reading through the whole thing again. This time, things are starting to make sense. By the time it hits noon, and I've gone through the thing three and a half times, I finally have a working hypothesis.

And then I do the one thing I swore I'd never do.

I call Flack.

* * *

><p>"You're saying...what exactly here?"<p>

"She was scared of something." I tap one of the paragraphs in the book, and ignore the dubious look on his face. We're holed up in a diner in SoHo, ignoring the shrieks of the child sitting in the booth behind us. Apparently somebody put caramel sauce on their sundae instead of hot fudge. Spoiled little brat. "And angry. Something was going on that she thought was a betrayal of her trust. That's why she's using this word so many times, here." I point. "Here it is again, and here, and here, and here. And here, for some reason, though it shouldn't be in this paragraph at all. I mean, the part about Hatshepsut's name and image being stricken off temple walls – that doesn't start for another twenty pages. So why is she railing on about it here? She's angry about something in her own life and she's projecting that anger into her thesis."

He takes the thesis, and reads the page through a few times, his eyebrows snapping together as he does so. He reads pretty fast; I'm surprised when he looks up only a minute or so later, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Could just be she likes the word."

"Could be, but she wouldn't use it so many times." I point again, this time at the edits scribbled on the margins. "See, Dr. Pearce dated each time he made a note on her thesis. These are the pages he edited the day before she died, the thing she wrote last. Her most recent work. I've compared it to the rest of the manuscript and altogether, it's the same voice. She's a smooth, conscientious, well-connected writer; people who write like that don't rely on one word that way. They catch it, and try to replace it, if they use it twice in the same three pages, let alone three times in the same _paragraph_. It's a classic projection technique, only she's not projecting on another person, she's projecting on her thesis. It's Freudian, but it's one of the few Freudian theories that actually holds water with me, so I'm taking it seriously."

"And you lost me."

"Freud was a misogynistic, anti-maternal asshole who, for some reason, managed to make this dark twisted view he had of psychology main stream. Ever hear of a Freudian slip? That's named after him. And if you remember, you mentioned Rafael's relationship with his mother, that's a Freud thing too. He came up with the Oedipus complex too, which is a total misnomer by the way, because it's not like Oedipus _meant _to fall in love with his mother, he had no idea who she was."

"You lost me again."

I go on rambles when I'm excited. Clearly, this is not working out. I draw a breath, hold it for a second, and release it. "Psychological projection. You want dollar words or penny words?"

It's a snipe. He ignores it – or, at least, deflects it. "Dollars work fine with me, Doc. Don't dumb yourself down on my account."

"Don't call me Doc." I pull a napkin from the dispenser, and get a pen out of my purse. Stick figures on a napkin will work fine. I've never had to explain projection before. This should be interesting. "Psychological projection is a defense mechanism. You know when there's something about yourself, or maybe your state of affairs, you know, some personality quirk or lifestyle choice that you don't like, but you don't want to admit it? Freud hypothesized that when that sort of thing occurs, you _project_ that same flaw onto other people." I draw another stick figure, and an arrow connecting the two. "See, you're angry at someone for something stupid. But you don't want to acknowledge that you're angry with them, so you think _they're _angry with _you _for something stupid. Or, if you have feelings for someone outside of your marriage, maybe, but you're refusing to let yourself believe that you have feelings for someone else, you start wondering if your partner's the one having the affair. Does that make sense?"

"So you're acknowledging something without acknowledging the fact that you're acknowledging it."

"Yes. Precisely. In this case, Gwen was conflicted about something which she thought was a personal betrayal. But she didn't want to _acknowledge_that fact, so she's putting it into her thesis as a way of looking at it without looking at the issue straight on. So I would say that we're looking for something that was going on in her life, right up until the moment she died, that she thought was wrong."

He drums his fingers on the table. "Her brother said he thought something was bothering her."

"That's good. That's really good. Did she have a diary, anything like that? Anything that could give us something to go on?"

"The lab's looking at her computer right now. She encrypted a lot of her emails, files. Didn't want anybody getting into them. It's a complicated thing, I guess. Drivin' Kendall crazy."

I blink. "She was an archaeology student, how the hell did she get everything encrypted?"

"Her roommate's a technogeek. Upgraded the laptop to…what was it, military grade and above? We can't track the woman down, so we've been tryin' to hack it, but it's not working out."

"Minzy's a computer whiz."

His face hardens. "Doc—"

"Look, it was just an option. She doesn't even have to know whose email it is she's cracking. She can just hack it and go on with her life." When he still looks dubious, I add, "She's been really withdrawn lately, this might be something to snap her out of it."

To my surprise, Flack softens slightly. I have to try not to stare. I didn't think he was programmed to soften. "She's not takin' the issue with her stepdad very well?"

I shake my head. "He hasn't shown up again, but we're worried that he might serve the Safe House with something legal and dangerous. That's what his type does, you know? Abusive parents or partners need control of the object of their abuse, it's what gives them all the power. It must be driving him _crazy_ that Minzy didn't go home with him when he confronted her. I know he's still in town, so…he's marshaling his defenses, I guess."

"I can send some uniforms to go check on him, if you want." The look on his face is dead serious, and I honestly have to think about it for a few seconds before shaking my head.

"As of right now, we can't really _prove_ anything, and since both Minzy and the ass are from Boston, and the abuse happened in Boston, it would be in Boston jurisdiction. It's only about two months until Minzy turns eighteen. If he sues us for custody, we might be able to hold out long enough for her to have a birthday and render his claim over her null and void. So…thank you, but I don't know if sending some uniforms over to talk to him would be helpful. He's so damn suspicious; he might just call it police interference or something and screw the NYPD over too."

"I don't think some Southie dirtbag's gonna put much of a dent on the department's reputation, but…if you say so." He frowns for a second longer. "But I'm still gonna have someone watch him."

Right now, _I'm_ the one watching _him_, and he notices. Flack leans back in his seat, tilting his head a bit. "What? You're starin' at me again."

"Just…" I shake my head. "Sometimes I can't figure you out, that's all."

"What do you mean?"

"You rag on my job and then you turn around and offer to help. It's…" I struggle for a second. "I never know how you're gonna react to something, that's all."

That's what I try to say, anyway. The last few words get split up by an enormous yawn that nearly cracks my face in half. Suddenly I'm aware of the aching exhaustion, like lead in my veins; I've had three cups of coffee already in the past two hours, but they are definitely. Not. Helping. His lips twitch.

"Don't you dare l-l-laugh—" I yawn again "—at me, Flack."

"Me? Laugh? Nah." The smirk vanishes as I fight another yawn. "When'd you last sleep, Doc? Woulda thought someone who studies brains all day might know that you kinda need sleep."

"I don't study brains, I study consciousness. And I had a gig last night, so…" God, when _did _I last sleep? Not last night, definitely. The night before…I was still thinking about the case and my decision to initiate a trial period at all, still second-guessing myself about it. And the night before that…no. No sleep. Not really. I was thinking about Minzy and Charlie and everything else. I'm so stupid.

"A gig doing what?"

"A singing gig. There's this place over near the Theater District called the Spotlight; I moonlight for them sometimes as a hostess."

"A singing hostess."

"It's a themed bar, you know? Broadway stuff. And are you gonna go interview her brother? He might have some more information about why she was so worried."

"I'll call him in. He's over in Jersey though, so it might take him a while to get here. If you're gonna sit in, go home 'n get some sleep first, yeah? Watching you yawn like that made _my _jaw hurt."

Unless I'm very much mistaken, he's mothering me. In a weird, awkward-male-to-foreign-female, I-don't-want-to-have-to-do-this-but-I-kind-of-do sort of way. I could call him on it, but we've compromised – no more ragging on each other. Not for the trial period, anyway. Besides, I could pass out in my apple pie right now, and that's definitely not the best idea. I waver for a second longer, but the idea of sleep – even for an hour or two – is way too tempting. "You'll call me when he gets here?"

He debates it inwardly for a second – but only for a second. "You can bet on it, Doc."

"For the last time. Don't. Call. Me. Doc."

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/8/12: Minor adjustments made.

So...I think I have the Egyptian Arc pretty much wrapped up. Then again, I'm a few chapters ahead of y'all, so...:)

Here's hoping everything sounds believable from this point on.

**yaba: **We have a deal. ::shakes hand:: I hope to continue using the _CSI: NY _precedent and push more boundaries. Should be fun. ;D And Bridget's past will be a long and delicate operation that should yield a respectable conclusion. In other words, you have more to look forward to.

**lady-buster**: Oh my gosh, I totally missed Friday, didn't I? Work shoved it's way into my life unnecessarily. :( PM ASAP, I promise.

**DispatchVampire:** Yes, I know you sent a PM and not a review, but I just wanted to thank you again! So...THANK YOU!

**matt-hardy-lover-101**: Thank you. ;)


	9. Magnesium

**1.9**

"Yo, Doc," Danny says, as I shut the door to the precinct behind me; I grimace at the nickname, but keep my mouth shut. There's just no way I'm gonna get them to stop calling me by my title, is there? "You're early."

Maybe. It's eleven-forty-five. And Flack did say 'around' noon…"Have they started yet?"

"Nope. We're waitin' on Meyer, actually; he ran into traffic." He waves at the receptionist (She Of The Many Piercings) and ducks through the door, heading for one of the desks. I follow him. "Oh, and there's a present for you. Flack picked it up earlier."

The 'present' (a distinctly dangerous choice of words, considering the images sliding through my head – bomb, bad food, old cases) turns out to be my temporary certification. I officially have a consultant's badge. Well, less of a badge than of a pass that I can hang from a lanyard until this case is over, but who cares? Clary sent over the paperwork I signed yesterday, my official disclaimer if I end up getting hurt doing this case (doubtful, but whatever) and Mac must have greased the wheels, because there's no way I would have ever had this stuff this fast otherwise. Any sort of bureaucratic process takes weeks without assistance, not days.

Danny grins at me. "Hey, y'almost look like one of us again."

"Don't get cocky, Messer, it's just a badge." I wait until he turns away to brush my fingers against it again, like a child, making sure the Christmas present is still there. "Is Aiden here today?"

"Nah. She's off chasin' rats." When I blink at him, he says, "Rat ate a bullet. She's off tryin' to find the little bastard. It's taking way longer than we thought it would."

"How long?"

"You don't wanna know."

"And you're not with her…why?"

"She's workin' it with a pest control…guy. Plus it's not my case. _My _case is goin' nowhere."

"I see." He looks a bit irritated about it, too. "And you're…?"

"Hey, I finished processin'. We're just waitin' on the results here 'n it's pissing me off." Danny grabs a set of files off his desk, hands me one with a slight bow, and jerks his head towards the entrance. "They're here. C'mon, we're in observation, yeah?"

"Fine by me."

Silas Meyer is of a height with Flack, blonde and green-eyed like his sister, and he's built like a rower or a mountain climber. Since Danny's accompanying us over to the interview room, I feel like a blade of grass in a room full of trees. Danny's five-nine (maybe a little taller), Silas Meyer is easily six foot, and Flack is a little bit over that. At five-foot-three (and in flat shoes), I'm the token midget, and I don't like the feeling much.

"Hey, look at that." Flack says, as one of the uniforms escorts Silas Meyer to the interview room, a dozen feet ahead. I fight the urge to touch the badge again, and frown at him. "You have your visitor's pass."

"Consultant's pass, Flack. _Consultant_. And I'm just here for Charlie."

"You kiddin' me? Crime's in your blood, Carter. You wouldn't be here otherwise." He glances at Danny, and I wonder how the hell someone who despises psychology can see through people so damn clearly. "What're you doin' here?"

"Processed the dress. Waiting for Stella. We're covered," says Danny, in the dull way people do when they've had to explain something multiple times. "'n you said you wanted me in the observation room?"

"Yeah."

I start to follow Danny, but Flack raises an eyebrow. "Where're you goin'?"

"Observation room?"

"Common sense, Doc," he says. An eyebrow goes up. (Of course.) "Observe. Process. Use common sense. The guy's like a macademia nut. You could take a sledgehammer to him and he'd still be talkin' in circles."

"He did just lose his twin."

"He's not actin' like it." He steps aside, leading the way into the interview room. Danny has to prod me over the threshold before closing the door behind me.

Through the two-way mirror, the place had looked frigid; now that I'm actually inside, it's even colder, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. There are two chairs at the table, facing each other; one of them's already filled by Silas Meyer, who looks first at Flack, then at me, then at Flack again, and then straightens up in his chair. He's in the college boy uniform, with flip-flops and shorts and sun-streaked blonde hair that's expertly tousled; an earring dangles from one ear. His shirt reads _Sam's Surf Shop_, in big white letters.

"Detective." For someone who just lost their twin sister, he looks remarkably well-quaffed. "Nice to see you again."

"Thanks for comin' back in, Mr. Meyer," Flack says, and remains standing. He also stays on the other side of the table. After a moment, I slide into the empty seat, and glance at the two-way mirror. I can see nothing, but Danny's watching. I'm sure of it. "I don't think you've met Dr. Carter."

"I don't believe I have either," Silas says with a sunny smile. He takes my hand, and holds it for a few seconds too long. "Very nice to meet you, Doctor. Call me Sy."

I smile thinly, and pull my hand away.

"So, what'd you bring me across the river for? I told you pretty much everything I know about Gwen the last time we talked."

"We have a lead that gave us some questions." Flack shrugs. "Thought you might be able to help with that."

"I'll do what I can, sure, but…Gwen's kind of a private person. She never tells me much about her life." He grimaces. "Never _told _me much about her life. It was always her and Mandy. Mandy's our sister; she lives up in Albany."

"You and Gwen were twins?"

"Yeah, but….you know, she was always out. We just kinda clashed, you know? She was a tightass and I'm…not."

Flack's right. He's not acting like he just lost his twin. He's not even acting like he lost a family member. He's acting like he's finally free. I clear my throat. "When did you last talk to your sister?"

"Mandy or Gwen?" I raise an eyebrow, and he clues in. "About a week ago, I think. She was freaking out about something, though. She didn't tell me what it was, but…you know, it's kind of easy to tell with her."

"What do you mean?"

"She was spazzing about that damn book of hers again. She doesn't do that unless something's making her really nervous. Or angry. Or, you know…general pissed-off I-am-a-bitch syndrome."

Flack moves, leaning forward to set both hands on the table, pushing at the edges of Silas's space. "Hey. She was your sister. Have a little respect for the dead, alright?"

"You didn't know her, dude. If you had, you wouldn't be talking that way." Silas shrugs, and I have the sudden, intense urge to punch him in the face. I clench my fists into my slacks and wet my lips.

"Any idea what could have been bothering her?"

He shakes his head. "Finals, maybe? I dunno."

Is he serious? "Finals? You mean school finals? In September?"

Silas shrugs again. "Like I said. Gwen never really talks to me. Not since Mom died. It's her and Mandy. We always said they were the ones who should've been twins."

He's still talking about her in the present tense, which is interesting, considering first of all it's been over a week since she died, and second of all he's acting like she never really lived in the first place. At least, she never really lived to do anything other than irritate him. So the truth of it hasn't sunk in yet, or he's BSing us. "So you have no idea why she was stressed out?"

"None at all."

Flack shifts gear. "You said book?"

Silas leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. He's completely comfortable in this room. I wonder if he has a record already. "That damn book she was always working on. That thing about the woman Pharaoh. Drove the rest of us _crazy_. It was all she would ever talk about."

"You mean her thesis?"

"No, I mean her book. She's been working on that since she was fifteen. She was only taking an excerpt of it for her thesis. Three of…what, twenty chapters? Something like that."

"Did you think she was making a good choice, studying Egyptology?"

"Hey, she didn't rag on me about my major, I didn't pick on her for hers."

"What're you studying, again"

"Environmental science. At least, I was, until Princeton kicked me out. I'm working now. School's…you know. Not really my thing."

"Did your sister know you'd been expelled?"

"Nah, I told her I dropped out."

"Don't tell me," Flack says, deeply sarcastic. "You didn't talk about school."

"I told you. I barely ever talk to my sister. We're twins, but…" Another shrug. He keeps coming around to this 'we're twins but we're not' thing. Defense mechanism? Deflection? He shifts in his chair, and leans forward. "So, uh, if that's all you have to ask me, can _I _ask _you _something, Dr. Carter?"

"That's not actually my last question, Mr. Meyer."

"It's Sy," he says, and ignores me. "I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink after this?"

"…it's noon."

"After this," he repeats, and winks.

"Hey, Meyer. This is an interview, not speed dating. Back off, all right?"

"Look, I was just trying to be friendly. Whatever, man." He glances at me. "He your bulldog or what?"

I can feel the tips of my ears turning bright red, and I have to resist hitting Flack. _Damn it, I don't need for you to defend me_!

"Watch it, Meyer," Flack warns. Before I can second-guess myself, I step on his foot, quick and fast, and ignore the look on his face. If the atmosphere gets any thicker, we'll be able to take slices out of it to serve at a dinner party.

"What about her roommate? Did she ever talk about her?"

"Oh, Zoë? All the time. You know, if there were two things that Gwen talked about, it was that damn manuscript and Zoë."

"What about?"

"Look, my sister…she was a closet lesbian, okay? She and Zoë had this fling and then this huge fight, and she'd been complaining about it ever since. That was just…that was how Gwen was. She was my sister, you know, I loved her, but…I didn't like her very much. Nobody really liked her all that much."

This is completely contrary to everything that's been said in the file, and both Flack and I know it. According to everyone else they'd – we'd, I realize, touching my badge again – interviewed, Gwen Meyer had been popular, well-liked, well-mannered, a good student, and a girl who liked a good time; not an overly-anxious, tightly-wrapped, angry woman who hid her sexuality and then panicked about it. She'd just up and given Charlie five bucks, for God's sake, a kid who, for all she knew, could have been a mugger or a meth addict, in the same city where people regularly step over the homeless in order to get into the supermarket.

When it comes to perspectives, it's the things you'll do for someone you'll probably never see again that matter more than the things you do for your boss or your lover…or your brother for that matter.

I glance at Flack.

"This roommate, girlfriend, what'd you say her name was again?"

"Zoë. Um…Zoë di Angelo. She's from…Long Island, I think. Gwen mentioned once that Zoë's dad owns this publishing firm here in town, but…I dunno. I only met her once, and she was a complete freak, you know? She was one of those people who don't eat meat or eggs or anything?"

"A vegan?" I say.

"Yeah. One of those. Plus she was always leading people on, you know? I'm pretty sure she's the one who slept with Gwen, not the other way around. And she hit on me the last time I was there, but when I responded? She _freaked_. Just…one of those people, you know?"

Flack snorts.

"That's totally what happened, man!"

With every word that comes out of his mouth, I'm liking Silas Meyer less and less. "You mean you hit on her and then when she rejected you, you decided she was freaky. Am I right?"

He grimaces. "I dunno, I don't remember. Look, I was kinda drunk, okay? It was our birthday."

"So…you don't know where Zoë is."

"No! That was the only time I ever even saw her. Look, if anyone knows about what was going on with Gwen, then it'd be Mandy."

"Mandy Meyer?"

"Mandy Boylan. She married some guy a couple months ago. Look, I don't talk much with either of them, okay?" He scowls at me. "Can I go now?"

"If we have any more questions for you, we'll call you, _Mr._ Meyer." I grab my folder and stand up, pushing the pad of paper across to him. "Write down your family's contact information for us, please. Your whole family, your parents and your sister. Also, if you happen to know anyone else who Gwen spent a lot of time with, write them down, please."

"Fine," he says, and then the sly smile crops up on his face again. "I'll meet you after?"

I leave the room before I punch his bratty face in.

Flack waits until we were out the door and down the hall before he stops and almost-glares at me again. "What the hell was that, Carter?"

No 'Doc.' For once. "Nothing. I just don't need you defending me."

"Excuse me?"

"I can handle idiotic frat boys on my own, _Detective_. I don't need you to jump up and be all knight-in-shining-armor."

"The bastard was annoying me."

"Well, the next time he annoys you, just…I don't know. Kick the wall. Something. Find some other way to express your anger instead of acting like I'm some random civilian that needs protecting."

"In case you haven't noticed, Carter, you _are_ a civilian."

"And I can protect myself, all right?"

He scoffs, and that does it. I grab his arm and drag him into a side corridor, where only the vending machines will hear, and snarl, "Don't. Don't you _dare_."

"Don't I dare what?"

"You know _exactly _what I'm talking about. I can protect myself. I've done it for a long time, Flack, since _way_ before I met you or anyone here in New York, and I don't need you acting like I'm some idiot damsel in distress."

"I wasn't," he says. "But you've made your point, Doc."

I open my mouth to keep arguing, and then realize he's caved and stare. He meets my gaze, and his icicle eyes are just the slightest bit darker than usual, and oh my God, why am I noticing this? Oh. Right. Because he's attractive.

Just because he's attractive doesn't mean he isn't _annoying_, I remind myself, and quit staring.

"You wanna let go?" He says, and damn him, he sounds _amused_. For a second, I don't know what he's talking I realize I'm still holding his elbow, and drop it, fast.

"Sorry," I say.

"No problem," he answers, half-smiling.

Then I bolt from the corridor, and hope my ears aren't as red as they feel. Because right now, they feel like magnesium set afire.

* * *

><p>"So I had to go find a rat while you had to talk to a rat." Aiden sips her coffee, makes a face, and then adds sugar. "We're just havin' a blast this week, aren't we?"<p>

"Don't remind me."

I forget, sometimes, that a lot of detectives are multitasking. Flack and Stella are off on their own case now, something about a rape in Central Park. Aiden, on the other hand, is free for a few hours; she and Mac have caught their man. After a day of waiting for some rats to eat some poisoned scrambled eggs.

Yeah. I'm never eating scrambled eggs again.

She swirls her coffee in the mug, and lets out a short sigh. She's tied up her long dark hair, and as she drops down into the couch in the break room, it slides over the back and dangles. "God, I'm tired."

"Have you been going overtime again?"

"Maybe. I dunno." She tilts her head back to look at me. "Braid my hair, please."

I make a face. "Are you twelve?"

"Right now, sure. Braid my hair please."

It's more for comfort than anything else. And her hair's longer; as I pull the hair tie out of it, it falls down to brush the back of the couch, far lower down than it had when we'd been dorming in college. She's also been taking better care of it. "I see my continuous demands for better conditioner grew on you."

"Hey, I know a good thing when I see it." She closes her eyes. "This is the only reason I kept you around. I can't braid my hair on my own."

"Oh, nice," I say, pulling some strands of dark hair up out of her face, divide the curls, and starting on a French braid. I can double it; one French braid on each side that I can eventually combine into one braid. I haven't done that one in a long time. "It's so wonderful to know I'm appreciated."

"You have wicked skills. Is that better?"

"Minutely."

It's soothing, working with my hands. It pushes Silas Meyer out of my head. Or, at least, pushes _him _out of my head; the information he gave us is still racing full speed through my brain. He might be an asshat, but he's given us a gift that we didn't have before – information.

So. Gwen Meyer and Zoë di Angelo had been in a relationship. Are they still in one? Would Gwen have told Zoë what was bothering her, in the days and hours before her death? It's human nature to mention things that are bothering us to people we care about; we get intense urges to share. Maybe whatever was bothering Gwen was what she fought about with Zoë.

That implies that Zoë knows – or knew – what was going on. So if Zoë knows, is that the reason why we haven't been able to find her? Is she running, or is she trapped somewhere? Or is she dead? And if she is dead, what the hell is this guy looking for, that he has to kill three people to find it?

Suddenly, Flack's idea of shipping ancient artifacts doesn't seem quite so out there.

Ugh. Flack. Embarrassment heats the back of my neck. So, yeah. I may have just totally made a fool of myself. Damn it, why am I so trigger-happy? Also, why is he so damn _aggravating_?

He's a sadist. He's a sadist and he enjoys torturing me. It's the only solution.

And now I'm stuck working with him.

Bloody hell.

"What are you thinking?" Aiden asks, as I clip off the first part of the braid and move to the other side of her head. "You're frownin' again."

"Nothing. Just…tired."

"You haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately either, have you?" When I shake my head, she scowls at me. "Flack mentioned it."

I can't help it. When in doubt? Snark. "What is he, the precinct scandalmonger? '_Who is the NYPD Gossip Girl? That's one secret he'll never tell_.'"

"Don't be bitchy, Bridge." Her eyes slide closed again. "How are you two getting along, by the way? I saw you talking earlier."

"Oh, we're _best _friends." I fumble part of the braid, and begin to redo it. "The only good thing about working with him is that he's good at his job."

"Still not getting along?"

"We've compromised." Aiden smiles. "What?"

"You always say that."

"What?"

"'We've compromised.' You always say that when you don't want to like someone."

"It's different this time, all right? I honestly don't like him. He's an asshat."

Aiden considers. "He thinks you have good instincts. And he's pleased that you're working with the department, even if he doesn't believe in psychology."

I scoff.

"You work well together, too," Aiden says, ignoring me. "I was watching you in the interview room. You know, you'd be a good cop if you decided to come back, Bridge. I know that you're consulting, but…I don't know. It's in your blood."

"That's the second time I've been told that today, and the third time this week, and it's getting kind of irritating." I'm not angry with her, though, and she knows it. Aiden waits until I finish the second braid, and then shifts a bit, straightening her shoulders. I take the two twists and combine them, into one long plait. "I'm not coming back to work as a detective, Aiden. I'm helping when I can. And right now, I'm helping because it has everything to do with one of my kids. Once it's done…I don't know."

"Right." I tie off the braid. Aiden pulls back, and puts her hand up to it, thinking. "So who's coverin' your shift at the Safe House?"

"Simon. He's…I think David and I are going to have to talk about offering him a job. If I start working part-time, we'll need someone who knows how the Safe House works to take over some aspects of my job, and he already knows everything. _And _he's good with the kids, _and _he's nearly done with his degree." I frown a bit. "We're gonna have to find some volunteers, though. There's no way two people can manage all that. It's no Danner Youth Crisis Center, but…we get enough."

She checks her hair in the window, smiles a bit, and then turns back to me. "Look, Flack's a good guy, okay? I know you two don't get along very well, but…well, Danny and me didn't get along too well at first. It'll get better once you work with him more, trust me."

I look at her. She's completely serious, hands on hips, her head tilted just slightly to one side with an expression on her face that dared me to argue with her. Aiden is very protective of her people. She also has very good instincts. She doesn't trust or even like people that easily, let alone get protective. If she's adopted Flack as one of her people, then that means…what?

"Fine," I say, and she relaxes. "I'll try."

"Try what?" It's Danny, standing in the doorway, his eyebrow raised. Aiden mock-glares at him, and grabs her coffee mug. "Will I enjoy watching you try?"

"Get your mind outta the gutter, Messer."

"You know how it is, Burn. You can try and try, but some things are just meant to be."

She shoots him the finger and goes to refill her coffee mug as Danny slouches in and steals the sofa. He slides his glasses off. He's exhausted. They both are; I can see it in the way Aiden's making another beeline for the coffee machine, and how Danny's sprawled with one foot on the arm of the sofa and the other resting on the crappy linoleum floor. I fight the urge to give him a blanket, and stand up from my chair. "I'll talk to you later, okay? I want to go check on my body."

"Your body doesn't need checking, Doc, it's fine the way it is," Danny says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Aiden smacks his ankle, and I flush. I've lived in New York for _years_ now, and I still can't get used to how frank some New Yorkers can be about that sort of thing. In Tucson, you're lucky if you even get honked at.

"You're in a mood."

He waves a hand. "Possibly. Morgue's downstairs. Hawkes should be there. He's always on duty."

I think all morgues must smell the same, like antiseptic and blood and the mustiness that comes with death. I'm not sure whether or not my consultancy badge gets me down here, but nobody protests. Hawkes glances up from one of the tables, where he's peeling skin off the fingers of a dead woman – a drowning, by the looks of it – and frowns. "Visitors aren't exactly allowed down here."

I feel like an idiot. "I'm Bridget Carter, Aiden's friend? I think we met last week."

"Carter," he repeats, and then brightens. "Of course. I'm sorry. I heard you were consulting today. The fluorescents down here make it difficult to recognize people, sometimes."

"No problem."

Hawkes' mouth quirks, and then returns to the hand, peeling off the skin of the thumb in one smooth movement. There's barely a sound, but I wince anyway. There's a reason I chose to work in psychology instead of typical medicine. Bodies and blood are too much. "Ah. Finally. Sorry, I've been trying to identify this woman all day. What can I do for you, Dr. Carter?"

"If somebody else calls me Dr. Carter today, I'm going to end up murdering them."

He carefully inverts the strip of skin, settles it on his finger like a miniature glove, and prints it. "They like their titles upstairs."

"They do it to you, too?"

"Sometimes." He sets the flesh aside, and moves on to the next finger. I wonder how many times he's had to do this; his incision is quick and methodical, all the way around the finger between the first and second knuckles, and then he peels up and away. My stomach's churning at the sight. "Depends on what they want to talk to me about. I hear you're working with Flack on the Egyptology case?"

"Mm." Well, sort of. "I actually wanted to see if you had anything on Dr. Pearce." I hesitate. "I know it's not in my jurisdiction and I'm technically not supposed to be down here anyway, but –"

"If Mac hired you as a consultant, you pretty much have the run of the place. Don't worry about it." Another fingerprint taken, another finger slit. He straightens, and peels off his bloody gloves. "I need a break from her, anyway. Come on. This way."

Pearce's hair is all white again, no longer soaked through with blood; the Y-incision on his chest is stitched closed with the same precise, methodical strokes that I saw on a few of the other bodies out on tables. His eyes are closed. At least someone's done that much for him. Hawkes pulls on a new pair of gloves, and flicks on the digital imager. "We can go with the obvious first. Blunt-force trauma to the back of the cranium. It was some kind of rounded object, maybe like the end of a golf club, but made of stone judging from the trace I pulled from the hair; I tried getting a cast of it, but it never came out clean."

He pulls an X-ray from the file, and holds it up for me to see. "That's what killed him, there." Hawkes points. "The neck was snapped at the C-3 vertebra. His bones indicated he was suffering from osteoporosis, and it weakened his spinal column; the blow to the head cracked his neck."

"So he was dead before they beat his head in?"

"Most likely. I found some powder on his clothes and sent it to Trace; they should be coming back with the chemical composition soon enough." He hesitates, and then pulls up one corner of the sheet, exposing Dr. Pearce's calf. "I also found some bruising on his wrists and ankles; it looks like he was held somewhere."

"What about the tattoo?"

"Old. Ish."

I hide a smile. "Oldish?"

"Definitely not recent, but the ink hasn't begun to deteriorate either. And then there are these." He crosses around the table, and pulls the sheet back, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.

Burns. Loads of them. Tiny, circular burns, around the same size as the eraser on the end of a pencil, or the butt of a cigarette, trailing up his arms from his wrist to his elbow. We only saw a few of them back at the crime scene; there are so many now that I feel sick. They're set a few inches apart, a random pattern in the madness, and I glance at Hawkes. "Did we get anything off of these?"

"Nothing. Just cigarette ash." He tugs the sheet up again, covering Dr. Pearce's face. "And they were inflicted almost immediately prior death. I can already tell you that they weren't on Gwen Meyer."

"So he's amping up his brutality."

"That would be an accurate summary."

I fight the urge to yank the sheet back again, and study the burn marks, all of them so neat, so exact and accurate. Up and down both arms. How long would that have taken? Minutes? Hours? "He was bound for all that?"

"Yes." He's grim. His eyes flick to mine. "Whatever this thing is that he's after, he's willing to do more than kill for it. He's willing to torture for it. When he finds what he's looking for, the person who has it won't be getting any mercy."

"We mean to find him before that happens."

* * *

><p>"Sodium bicarbonate decahydrate."<p>

"Excuse me?"

Adam grabs the chemical analysis out of the printer and hands it to me, so I can study it. I don't bother telling him that chemistry was, probably, my worst class, in both high school _and _college. I was always more of the biology type. "More commonly known as natron."

The name rings a bell. "The stuff they used in ancient Egypt?"

"Exactamundo."

"Sorry, what's matron?" Flack says.

"Natron," I correct. "Natron is this sort of naturally occurring mix of baking soda and salt that the ancient Egyptians immersed dead bodies in, so they would mummify faster. It dries out bodies pretty quickly, actually. They also used it blended with oil as a sort of soap. It was widely used through the ancient world."

"That's right," Adam says, looking surprised, and I hide a smile. I've been reading about ancient Egypt online since Dr. Pearce's body was found. Apparently, it was a good decision. "There wasn't enough of a sample to carbon-date it, so I can't tell you if he picked it up from a mummy or whether he just bought some natron himself, but natron isn't that commonly used anymore, so…it's not really something you can pick up from the supermarket."

"So he'd have to go somewhere pretty specific to get at this stuff."

"Probably." Flack's making him nervous; Adam shifts away, back to the microscope. So it hadn't just been that one day, then. "And there's this; Dr. Hawkes found it in the wound in his head."

He offers a petri dish, to me, not to Flack; Flack peers over my shoulder.

"It's a rock."

"It's limestone. And that I _could_ carbon-date. It's about three thousand years old."

I whistle. "Where do you get three thousand year old limestone in New York?"

"Everywhere." Flack rolls his eyes. "It's New York, Doc. If you want it, people bring it."

"Still, three thousand year old limestone…kind of a rarity, even by the city's standards."

"I thought that too, so I went back to the evidence…" Adam rolls to the nearest computer and taps a few keys. "Ticket stub from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They're setting up a new exhibit. The archaeologists are freaking out over it. Maybe whatever this broke off of, it came from there?"

I roll the rock between my fingers thoughtfully. Then I glance at Flack. "What do you think?"

"I think we've got ourselves a date at the museum," Flack says, and grins.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

Honestly, if Flack said that to me, I just might faint. Bridget has guts. ;)

Hopefully this expands on ancient Egypt for everyone? ;)


	10. Mixed Messages

**1.10**_  
><em>

We have to park a few blocks away from the Met (there's an influx of tourists today) and walk to the museum. Flack's on his phone most of the time, talking to Stella about the other case he's working, and I wonder if they've caught the guy or not. Judging from the frustrated sounds coming out of Flack's phone, I'm going to tentatively say no.

"What do you think?" I ask, as soon as he hangs up; the stairs are crowded with people, all of them chattering at the top of their lungs, and I'm not worried about being overheard.

"About what?"

"Zoë."

Flack rubs his hand over his face, thinking. "I don't know. We've been tryin' to find her to unlock the laptop, but if that mook is right then she might be a whole lot more important than that."

Silas Meyer, a mook. I can be down with that.

We're dancing around each other again, Flack and I; the semi-argument in the corridor is going ignored, and so the awkwardness is back. Well, kind of. Mostly on my side. Bah. "I don't like the fact that nobody's been able to find her since it happened. If she knew something about what was bothering Gwen Meyer, then she'd be the natural second target, which implies that Dr. Pearce was third choice. So where's Zoë di Angelo?"

He nods, almost tiredly, and for the first time I can see the exhaustion creasing his face. He's been awake for a long time. I doubt he's had more than an hour's sleep, with two cases to work and both of them meaning late nights and early mornings. "Believe me, Doc, we've thought of – what're you doing?"

Coffee cart. I order two, and glare at Flack. "And you're the one lecturing me for not getting any sleep."

"Doc—"

"Just take it. Okay? You need the caffeine, and don't you dare say you don't."

We glare at each other for a second. Then he caves, and gives me a tired smile, maybe one of the first honest ones I've seen from him. I don't want to admit it, but Don Flack has an amazing smile. "Thanks, Doc."

I pay for my apology coffee and ignore the way that my ears are burning.

It's been years since I last visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it hasn't changed a bit. The high sweeping ceilings and stone pillars are just the same as they were when I first moved to New York and spent hundreds of Saturday afternoons holed up in the corner, watching the people go by, fascinated by the different personalities. I probably have more practice reading people out of paintings than most of the city, let alone other the other psychology students at CUNY, because other than Aiden and her friends, I pretty much had no real social life.

It's the manager of the ancient Egypt exhibit that comes out to meet us, a nervous-looking man with big ears and mousy hair. The badge on his suit says his name is Christian Sanchez; he's only a few inches taller than I am. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but our intern made a mistake; we don't need any exterminators. Everything in here is fine."

"Not quite the kind of rat we're looking for," Flack says, and flashes his badge. Christian Sanchez goes white around the gills. "I was wondering if you knew anything about a Dr. Jackson Pearce?"

"Jackson?" He blinks. "Of course I know Jackson. He's organizing a new exhibit for us; it's opening next month. May I ask what—"

"Dr. Pearce was found dead early yesterday morning—"

Mr. Sanchez, not the youngest guy in the world, clutches the lapels of his suit, over his heart. I hope he's not having palpitations. "_What_?"

"—so I'd appreciate it if you have any information about his movements day before yesterday."

"Where's the new exhibit being set up?" I ask, before Mr. Sanchez can say anything. He points down one of the hallways.

"I-It was an exhibit on New Kingdom art. Dr. Pearce is – was – a world-renowned specialist in that field…he was very…" He trails off lamely. "Now what are we going to do?"

"I have a few questions, if you don't mind, Mr. Sanchez, so if you could get someone to escort the doc here—"

"Of course."

It ends up being one of the interns who takes me down to the wing where the new exhibit is being set up. They've roped off part of the wing in order to keep it private; the intern, a boy named John McEnroe, has to unclip a rope to let me in. There's a camera too, I notice. Not exactly Fort Knox, but if something happened here we'll at least be able to track who came and went. "Is Dr. Pearce really dead?"

"Unfortunately." I pull on a pair of latex gloves (I've been keeping them in my pockets now) and flick on the lights. John McEnroe stands by the wall, watching me do it; he looks highly anxious.

"You shouldn't be going through this. I can get one of the staff, if you want –"

"This is an investigation. I'm investigating."

"Oh." His hands twitch. "Do you know what happened?"

"I can't talk about that, I'm sorry." The place is loaded with boxes, some of them half open; only some of the artifacts are in their glass cases, ready to be shown. Others are boxed away, wrapped and treated and brought up from the bowels of the Met. "So you knew Dr. Pearce?"

"He helped me get the internship here. I just…I can't believe he's dead. Do you have any idea who killed him?"

I think of Aiden, heading over to the Safe House to get a sketch of the man Charlie saw kill Gwen Meyer, and shake my head. "We're working on a few leads. You said he helped you get the internship?"

"Yeah – he taught one of the classes I took last semester, on ancient Greece. I'm an undergrad at Columbia," he adds, shifting nervously. I'm pacing the room, studying the boxes, looking for anything that shouldn't be there. "Um, what are you doing?"

"Were you in this room recently?"

"Well, yeah. Gwen and Dr. Pearce asked me to help them set up."

I nearly drop a small box full of lapis lazuli Eyes of Horus. "Gwen Meyer was working this exhibit too?"

"Yeah, it was her idea. Why?"

I don't answer him. "Is there anything different about this place? From the last time you were in here."

"No?"

There are too many sheets; they're obscuring everything. I finger one, glance at McEnroe for permission, and then fold a corner back; a stone box, the outer sarcophagus. "Is there a mummy in this?"

"No. Some of the sarcophagi…the museum keeps the mummies. That one's on loan from Cairo." His hands spasm. "Um, please be careful with it."

"I'm not going to hurt it." It's made of hard stone, set on a rolling cart, and I wonder how heavy it is; I trace my finger along the edge, rubbing the dust between finger and thumb. Natron, maybe? It smells like salt. Well, that explains how Dr. Pearce had natron on his clothes. "What's this made of?"

"Limestone."

"Is there anything else made of limestone in the exhibit?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"It's a lead." I peek under another sheet. A statue made of sandstone, if I'm not very much mistaken; a pharaoh, by the look of the crown and beard. John McEnroe goes a bit limp.

"Of course. You can't tell me, can you?"

"Not without violating a few laws."

His hands clench into fists, and then relax again, in a cycle; jerking like an automaton, he stalks to one of the shut boxes, sits down, and runs his hands through his hair. After a moment, he says, through gritted teeth, "I can't believe he's dead."

"Were you and Dr. Pearce close?"

"Kind of. I mean, he was my teacher, you know? He was…he was a good guy. I was closer to Gwen. Oh, God. They're _both_ dead." He looks up at me, pure terror leaking into his eyes. "Is it because of the exhibit? Oh, hell, I can't ask you that. But if it's because of the exhibit—"

I need to get him off this train of thought. "Dr. Pearce had a tattoo on his hand, an Eye of Horus; do you know why?"

"He and Gwen – well, everyone had one. She told me once that she'd had it done right after getting her bachelor's. Dr. Pearce headed this group at school, okay? It was a bunch of Egyptology students, archeologists, art history majors, that sort of thing, they_all_ had that tattoo. It's a _wadjet_ eye; in ancient Egypt it was supposed to be a symbol of protection." He laughs. "Kind of stupid, but… It was just a club, you know?"

"A club? What did they do?"

"I don't know exactly what they did. You can't be a member until you're a graduate student. But I heard Gwen and Dr. Pearce talking about it sometimes; it just seemed like this research group, you know? They were all working on the exhibit."

"How many people in the club?"

"Five, including Gwen. Dr. Pearce was the faculty advisor. I guess…I guess you could call me a pledge for it; Gwen was tutoring me. She was…she was really good. Really talented. She was going to publish a book on the New Kingdom."

"On Hatshepsut." When he glances up at me, I shrug. "I've glanced through it. Do you know who else was in the club?"

"Well, yeah, they were all working the exhibit." He begins ticking names off on his fingers. "Um, there was Zoë di Angelo – she's Gwen's girlfriend, she specializes in Amarna art, but she has a double-major in computer science. Ali al-Busiri, who works with hieroglyphs. Nick Yurko – Dr. Pearce is teaching him how to restore artifacts. And, uh, Barbie Harris. Her major is architecture."

He has a good memory. "And what do you think of them?"

He hesitates for a second, and then leans forward. "Well, she doesn't act like it, but Zoë's a bitch. She knows what she wants. She wants Gwen, and she wants fame, and she's never cared who she's had to screw over to get it. You know, they all act like friends, but they're not. They all hate each other."

I scoot around the statue to another box. "Explain."

"David's dating Barbie _now_, but three months ago she and Nick were like this." He twines his fingers together. "And Ali knew that. But he broke them up so he could have her, and now he's acting like he doesn't even really want her. And Barbie…" he shrugs. "She's the kind of person who wouldn't hesitate, you know?"

"About what?"

"About anything."

"What is it exactly you do here, John?" I eye him. "Except air out dirty laundry."

Pink patches flare up on his cheekbones. "Oh, I categorize. I write things up, you know? I work a lot with the records department. Taking pictures of the artifacts, that sort of thing. You know, Zoë didn't want me helping with the exhibit, but Gwen insisted. They argued about it for a long time. It was…" He shakes his head. "It was pretty bad."

I mull this over for a second. "You don't happen to have any photos of them, do you?"

John brightens a bit. "There's a picture of them in Dr. Pearce's office. I can go get it if you want?"

"That'd be great, thank you."

He bolts out of the exhibit, nearly bumping into Flack on the way out; with a mumbled "Sorry" he dashes down the hall and vanishes. Flack watches him go, and then lifts an eyebrow at me. "You don't have to scare them, Doc."

I pull another sheet aside. More boxes. "So what'd you get out of the curator?"

"Fat lotta nothing. Gotta love New York. Even in the Met, they're like those monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil." He shrugs. "What're you doin'?"

"Checking to see if there's anything in here that has the right sort of limestone to be found in Dr. Pearce's head." Another sheet reveals an open box with a casket inside; the lid's been pushed aside. I check my gloves for tears and then shift the lid over more. It's a set of canopic jars, the paint fading until it's almost the color of concrete. "Oo, fun, human organs."

He chokes on the apology coffee. "What?"

"Nothing. The ancient Egyptians mummified their organs." I put the lid back on the box. "Except for the brain. The brain they pulled through the nose and threw out, because obviously, the heart did all the thinking. The brain was just stuffing to make sure your head didn't collapse in on itself."

"Now, that's just nasty."

I grimace in agreement, and move to another statue. "You wanna hear what I just heard?"

He relaxes. "I knew sendin' you with the intern would be a good idea. Interns always know everything."

I refuse to think about what this means when it comes to the Safe House, and work my way through the boxes, going over what John McEnroe just told me. Once I'm done, Flack stands and starts to look through the exhibit with me, too antsy to sit still. Even exhausted, he's buzzing with energy; there's another twist in this weird weaving project we're trying to unravel. "I'll bet those other three names are the people we're gonna be hearin' the most about when we talk to Mandy Boylan."

Somehow, I agree with him. "We'll need to track them all down as soon as possible. I don't like the fact that there have been two deaths and one disappearance within this group in the past two weeks. I think it would be a fair estimate to say that the Wadjet Eyes are being targeted."

"For what, though? The antiquities trade? There's a lot of money in this room." An eyebrow lifts. "And…the Wadjet Eyes?"

"What else are we going to call them?"

He grunts. "We'll get a list of artifacts and have one of the techs check up on it. If there's anything missing, that might give us a direction."

"So what's our timeline?" I smack my hands clean of limestone dust. "Gwen Meyer was worried about something she thought was a betrayal. She resigns from her job at the art gallery – probably to keep working on this exhibit, which, conveniently, she didn't tell the gallery owner – and then had an argument with her girlfriend days before her death. The girlfriend vanishes. Gwen Meyer is killed."

"Jackson Pearce visits the Met the day he dies after comin' into contact with natron, which, according to Lord Fussy outside, couldn't have happened in the museum because they don't have any mummies at the moment."

"That he knows of." I point at the sarcophagus. "That has natron on it. I think."

Flack nods. _Point_. "Nobody sees Dr. Pearce after six o'clock. He turns up beaten to death in Battery Park ten hours later, prob'ly after being tortured. Gwen Meyer's computer is locked down. The girlfriend's still missing." He rubs the back of his neck. "Any thoughts at this point would be fabulous, Doc."

I hesitate. "I need to get into Gwen Meyer's apartment. It's the same thing with the notebook; I can read more about her from her apartment than from hearsay, especially considering her brother was a dead end."

"Done. I'll talk to the sister." He slams the lid on one of the boxes. "Maybe _she'll_ have some idea what that goddamn password is."

"Here it is, Detective." John McEnroe slides back into the room, holding a photo frame in both hands. His glasses are slipping down his nose; he shoves them back up again. Mr. Sanchez is bustling after him, buzzing like an angry bee. I don't correct him on the title as Flack takes the photograph, angling it so I can see.

It was taken at Jefferson Park; a picnic. Gwen has her arm around the neck of a girl with caramel-colored skin and narrow eyes; the other girl's kissing her cheek. Dr. Pearce is sitting on Gwen's other side. I recognize the other three faces from Gwen's MySpace account; the one with bright blue hair must be Barbie Harris. She's curled against one of the guys, maybe Ali al-Busiri. From what I can tell, they all have the Eye of Horus tattooed on the web of skin between left forefinger and thumb.

"When was this picture taken?" Flack asks, as I move away and start walking clockwise around the room, checking to see if there are any boxes I've missed. John keeps an anxious eye on me.

"Maybe six months ago? We've been working on this exhibit for over a year. It was a big project, for all of us. Gwen took that job at the art gallery just to get some experience in how to lay out a good showing. Ran herself ragged."

There's a chip of limestone on the tile, part of what looks like a spear. I shove the bundled tarps off of the last box, and open it. It's a bunch of smallish statues, each about the length of my hand, thick-set; they look almost like more sarcophagi, the kind that are shaped like human beings, slate gray and intricately carved with hieroglyphics. There are eleven. I set the chip of stone from the petri dish against the next statue, comparing; it's a perfect match, color, angles, everything. "Flack!"

"Yeah."

"Who's lead CSI for this case?"

"Stella, why?"

I tuck the petri dish, complete with rock, back into my pocket, and step away from the box, carefully covering it back up. "I think I just found the murder weapon."

Christian Sanchez faints dead away.

* * *

><p>Technically, none of the statues in the box are the actual murder weapon. There's one missing. There should be twelve elaborate <em>ushebti<em>, the little clay or, in this case, stone 'servants' that were buried with pharaohs to continue serving them in the afterlife, in that box, and now there are only eleven. John McEnroe nearly has a heart attack when that little fact comes clear, and we have to run and grab some more smelling salts for Mr. Sanchez, who's clearly not able to deal with the whole thing.

Now, at least, we have some idea of what we're looking for. We can only hope that the statue isn't at the bottom of the river.

Flack manages to get into contact with Mandy Boylan about two hours into the crawl through the exhibit; she can't come down to the 12th, which means that Flack has to drive to Albany to talk to her. Ergo, I can't go, because I can't afford to miss another full day at work.

Stella and Danny are still processing the rape case, so we have to wait for Aiden to show up with her sketchbook in tow before learning anything definite. The session with Charlie seems to have gone well; she shows me a craggy face with blue eyes and acne pockmarks, just like Charlie described to me, before tucking her drawing pad back into her kit and processes the box. No blood, she tells me, and too many fingerprints; Mr. Sanchez, taking deep whiffs of his smelling salts, chokes out that all the fingerprints of the people who work at the museum are in a digital database that he can grant us access to. Which, hopefully, can rule out the prints that are supposed to be there.

I give my card to Sanchez _and _John McEnroe, and so does Flack, and then we leave.

"You look like hell," David tells me frankly, when I finally stumble back into the Safe House and settle at the kitchen table, peeling open a bag of Circus Animal cookies. They're bright pink and purple and white, and, somehow, they take the edge off my temper. Across the table, Minzy taps away on a laptop; Simon sits next to her. He's watching _her_, not the document, and I wonder if she realizes how smitten he is with her.

If we do end up giving Simon an actual job, this could end up being a problem. I cut my eyes to David, but he's still focused on his book. I don't doubt that he's noticed, though. David notices everything.

Then again, in a month or two Minzy will be eighteen, and if she wants to stay in the Safe House, she's going to have to work too. She won't be a minor anymore, and therefore we can't help her, not according to our bylaws.

"No blood today, at least." Not fresh blood, anyway. Dead bodies, sure, but no fresh blood. Is it bad that I think this is a good thing? "How'd everything work out?"

"Surprisingly well, truth be told. Simon was lost in the Z drive for a while, because you file things funny, but other than that, no dramas."

"I don't file things funny."

Simon grins at me. "Whatever you say, Dr. Carter."

I stick my tongue out at him. David laughs, and steals the bag of Circus Animals from me. "You're giddy."

"I'm tired," I correct, but I'm happy too, more than I should be. Which is bad, because I'm only supposed to be this happy working with homeless kids. Damn it, I _knew _getting involved with this was a bad idea. "And I haven't eaten all day, ergo, I'm dizzy. Return the cookies, please."

He gives them back, though with a toll tax. Part of the reason I love Circus Animals is that absolutely _everyone_ looks ridiculous eating them over the age of seven; watching an almost fifty year old black man with a shaved head and a scorpion tattoo on his neck eat them is close to hilarious. I cough to hide my laughter, and grab a few cookies myself before Minzy takes the bag. "So, I met with Clary today."

Minzy's fingers stumble on the keyboard, and she has to backspace. She doesn't look at me. Simon, however, comes to abrupt attention. David takes another cookie and keeps quiet, but he's not turning another page. "Really."

"She says that if it comes down to it, she can only fight a legal battle she has good footing in. She wants to talk to you, Minzy."

"About what?" Minzy says, wary.

"About your stepfather."

More typing. I think Simon's put her to work cataloguing old cases; people we haven't seen in years and she's probably never met. We can't let her near the current cases, because she _is _a current case, but the old ones she can upload to the Z drive, so they're not languishing in the back of some file cabinet. Simon glances at me, and then back to Minzy. "Min?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk to Clary?"

"Not particularly."

"It's only a precaution." She says nothing; I grit my teeth and forge ahead. "Just in case anything happens, Minzy. I know you don't want to get involved in a long legal battle, and neither do I, but if he does try to take you back, then we want to be prepared."

"He won't."

"He will, Minzy. People like him…that's how they think."

"No, he won't."

"That's a possibility." I take a breath. "I don't think it's a good idea to not saddle up at all, Minzy. Just in case something _does_ happen—"

"I don't have to talk to her if I don't want to." She looks at Simon. "Right?"

"Well—"

"Do I or don't I?"

Simon glances at me, and then says, "Technically, no, you don't, but—"

"Then I don't want to."

"Minzy!"

She slams the laptop shut and stalks away from the table. A few seconds later, I hear the front door bang shut. Simon gets up to follow her, but David shakes his head.

"Leave her be, Simon. She needs to work through this on her own."

I hope that means she'll come back.

The rest of the evening is fairly quiet. I help Simon and David finish off the bag of Circus Animals, check the kitchen (I need to go get more cans of soup) and then head upstairs to work on returning emails. Mostly stuff from Clary and some other homeless shelter directors from around the city, but there's also a note from Rosario, asking if she can visit New York during spring break next year.

Wow. March. March is way further ahead than I've been thinking at the moment. Mostly it's just been a 'get through it day by day' thing. I write her back, telling her I have to ask David before I can give her anything definitive, but I'm pretty sure he'll say yes. I can't help it; I've missed my niece. And if it's just her coming out for spring break, and not her mother, maybe this trip will actually work out well.

I end up watching a steampunk anime movie with Matt and Maguire (who look freaked out that I even offer to sit with them, let alone seem to be enjoying _Steamboy_). It's highly entertaining, albeit scientifically inaccurate (all that steam squashed into a ball the size of a big watermelon? Please.). For once, it lets me talk to them; Matt agrees with me that the steam ball is completely fantastical, and rips into Maguire when he says, in a scathing voice, "It's _anime_, what did you _think _it was going to be, _accurate_?"

Apparently, Matt is an anime buff; also, there is such a thing as a reasonable anime. Though she can't come up with a title off the top of her head.

They're still arguing about it when I claim exhaustion and head up to sleep.

* * *

><p>Gwen Meyer's apartment is on West 131st Street, on the fifth floor of one of the condominiums that line the street across from Christ Temple Baptist Church. It's not Stella who meets me at the door, though – it's Danny and Adam, Adam looking nervous, Danny texting absently. He has his story ready before I can even say anything.<p>

"Stella's off for the day. She was up late reprocessing a case." He stifles a yawn. "We all were."

"I wasn't," Adam says.

"That's because you're working this one and didn't have anything to do until now." Adam shrugs a bit, and Danny scowls. "Anyway, I'm still on shift and I was dead bored, so I thought I'd tag along."

"Feel free. It might be kind of boring for you, though. I'm just gonna look around."

"Fine by me." He winks, and holds up a keychain. "Besides, _I'm _the one who has the keys."

The apartment itself is pretty neat; it looks like some of the papers haven't been touched for days. There's not an excess of Egyptian stuff, maybe a few prints on the wall and a pyramid-shaped paperweight, but that's about it. Some of the furniture looks like it's been picked up off the street. I know that a lot of college students do that sort of thing; hunt around alleys looking for decent couches, chairs, etcetera, so they can just pick up a new couch and not have to deal with money issues. There's a dust cover on the couch, made of white yarn and copper beads; it looks homemade.

Adam's humming under his breath as he pulls a pair of latex gloves from his kit, snaps them on, and hands me another pair. It sounds like that song from _A Nightmare Before Christmas_, the one about Halloween. Somehow I'm not surprised.

"Has anybody processed the apartment?"

"Not actively. I mean, uniforms have gone through it for wallets and ID and stuff, but it's not a primary crime scene, so…" He shrugs. "Virgin territory."

Which doesn't explain the gloves. I tuck mine in my pocket. I don't like wearing them if I don't have to. "You have a camera, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm just gonna wander around for a minute, and then I'll let you know if I need anything photographed."

Danny drops the keys back into his pocket. "And I am gonna stalk you, because I wanna see how your crazy voodoo gig works."

"Fine." It's not like I'm going to be talking aloud. Though… "Voodoo?"

He shrugs a bit, offering no excuse, and I stifle a grunt of exasperation. How many of these scientists don't believe in psychology?

Oh, hell. Why am I thinking like that? I sound like a conspiracy theorist. Psychology isn't a theory; the question of belief is irrelevant. It simply _is_.

The rooms are organized, a mix of messy and tidy. There's a desk with a space for a laptop that is no longer there; the rest of the surface is covered in papers, drafts of chapters of Gwen Meyer's book. There are some other things too, essays and computer disks that might end up being homework assignments. The top drawers are filled with bills and pencils. There's a photo of Gwen and Zoë, and another copy of the picnic photograph, and a picture of an older couple that have to be Gwen's parents. The mother has bright blonde hair. The picture of Zoë is set to the foreground; this is Gwen's desk.

If I was going to call Gwen and Zoë anything, it wouldn't be roommates; the second bedroom is being used as a storage area. The main bedroom is a cacophony of clothes and books and papers; the bed is still unmade.

"Looks like somebody's done a runner," Danny says mildly, as I prod my feet through the pile of clothes. The drawers are still open, and it looks like a bag is missing from the closet.

"Has anyone been in here before us?"

"No, we were just knockin' on the door, checking with friends. Usual deal."

I check under the bed; no dice. Nothing hidden. Then the phone messages. Typical stuff; there're a couple of calls from Flack, the latest one from this morning, just in case Zoë comes back to the apartment, but not much else of note except for a message from Dr. Pearce about Gwen's thesis. Or book, I should say.

There's no shredder, which makes things infinitely easier; I pull my gloves on, crouch by the recycling bin, and upend it onto the apartment floor. Papers skid everywhere, old bills, drafts of the book, and a flurry of paper pieces that are stupidly easy to rearrange.

It's a printed email to someone with the screenname at a Gmail account: a list of artifacts that should be going into the exhibit, probably sent over from the different museums that have put them on loan. Everything from the Met is there, and a handful of other things that someone's marked with stars and question marks. Gwen's been copied on the email, which simply reads, _Thought you might like to know_.

"Someone has a cruel sense of humor."

"I'll say." Danny points at the sender's name: missingsomething at a free email network. "If this is a one-time-only address…that's just kinda sick."

Adam hesitates. "I can…track them down. If you want?"

"That'd be great."

"Gimme a minute." He leaves the room, probably heading back down to the crime lab van I spotted on my way in here. Without a word, I help collect the rest of the trash, settle the pieces in a paper bag, and let Danny tape them up.

"So maybe Flack was right." I sit back on my heels, staring at the garbage can. "So maybe they were killed because they figured out someone was running antiquities through the exhibit to sell them. We'll have to search for the missing pieces if we want to figure out who it is." And it would also explain the 'it' the man Charlie saw had been blabbering on about. "Which means it had to be someone working the exhibit, because no one else would be able to edit the documents that came with the artifacts without someone noticing."

"Zoë di Angelo?"

"Maybe. It'd explain why she's unreachable." I think of the photographs, and hesitate. "I don't know, though. It looks like she was really in love with Gwen Meyer. She might be running because she thinks she'll be dragged into the conspiracy if she stays. Either way, we still have to find her."

"We're workin' on that, Doc."

"I know." Beating the dust from my jeans, I stand up, and head for the kitchen. Danny finishes his bag and tag and trails along behind. "Nothing from the airports, train and bus stations…?"

"Nobody remembers seein' her and there's nothing on the security tapes." He scruffs a hand through his hair. "So I'm thinkin' she's still in the city. There's no car registered to her or Gwen Meyer, so she couldn't drive out, and none of the rental places in town talked to her. Believe me, we've checked."

I can't think of anything that contradicts that idea, so I pick through the cabinets. Dishes. Cups. A few boxes of microwavable ramen. "All this place is telling me is that Gwen Meyer would have told Zoë if she thought something was wrong."

"So…if Flack's right, and that paper _does_ mean someone was stealin' artifacts…then they're killing the people who know in order to keep it quiet?" He drums his fingers on the dining table. "That's…kinda irrational. That'd attract attention, which is just what this person _doesn't_ want. Why not just threaten 'em, instead?"

"Murder isn't rational, Danny."

A cell phone rings. I wait for Danny to answer, but he doesn't move; he's watching me with eyebrows raised. "Aren't you gonna pick up, Doc?"

"Not my phone. Is it Adam's?"

"No, his is AC/DC."

We stare at each other for a second, and then bolt to find the phone.

The sound is stifled, but loud; it's coming from somewhere nearby. I start pulling open drawers again. Danny goes through the papers on the counter. The phone stops, and then starts again. Finally, we find it; shoved up behind the knife block, attached to a charge cord. The name on the screen says _Restricted._ Danny glances at me, and then answers it, putting it on speaker; he doesn't want to hold it against his ear and corrupt DNA evidence. "May I ask who's calling please?"

I can hear the voice, even from two feet away. It's shaky, unfamiliar, distorted by static. "Hello? Who is this?"

"This is Detective Messer from the New York Crime Lab. Now, who's calling, please?"

"Oh." Silence. Another rush of static, like she's breathing heavily. She might be. There's a rush of muffled voices, and then quiet again, except for the breathing.

"Who is this?" Danny says. "What's your name?"

A pause. Then a shuddering sound, almost like a sob. "My name is Zoë di Angelo. A-And I killed them."

My spine turns to ice. "Killed who?"

Her voice breaks. She's crying. "I killed them. Gwen and Dr. Pearce are dead, and I did it. I'm the one who killed them."

Then she screams, and the phone goes dead.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

6/8/12: Minor edits made.

So, I've calculated out, and I seem to get an average of two reviews per chapter. But there have been 709 separate visitors to _Pretending _in the past month...curious arithmetic. (In other words, reviews, please. :) I have said before, I am a junkie. Pushing reviews = fulfilling my addiction = more chapters of this story. Kthnx!)

**yaba: **I get the feeling that Danny gets vulgar when he's tired, for some reason...? And the Gossip Girl thing...I couldn't resist it.

**matt-hardy-lover-101**: :-)


	11. Ups and Downs

**1.11**

"Zoë? No." Nick Yurko shakes his head so fast that the copper beads he's woven into his shaggy blonde dreads clack together. "No _way_ could she kill Gwen. Or Dr. Pearce. Zoë's the gentlest person I've ever met. Whatever she's told you, she's lying. For some reason, she's lying." He looks up at Aiden, beseeching. "Can I see her, please?"

"Not at the moment." Which is a fancy, can't-tell-you-anything-because-you're-a-possible-suspect way to say, _We still haven't found her._ She'd made the call from a phone booth – the same one that Charlie had used to call the police after watching Gwen Meyer be killed. Aiden had processed it and taken the tape off the same afternoon Flack and I had visited.

"Oh."

Flack and I are watching through the two-way window again, and frankly I'm glad not to be in the interview room. I'm more comfortable hidden here, a member of the background.

Even if I'm stuck in here with Flack.

In the next room, Danny is interviewing Ali al-Busiri; the room after that, Stella is talking to Barbie Harris. IT has set up video cameras in each of the rooms, and all the cords lead back here to play the footage, simultaneously, on the computer, recording the interviews for posterity. So, without even looking through the window, I can see that Barbie hasn't touched up her dye job in days. There are blonde roots to her blue hair, stained a pale green by chlorine and too much dye. She shifts anxiously in her chair, unable to look at Stella. I can see that Ali al-Busiri, an international student from Cairo, is trying to be cool as a cucumber, but there's sweat dappling his forehead. It's Nick Yurko who's babbling like an idiot, unable to focus on anything for more than a full minute. None of them look a thing like the drawing that Aiden made of the man who killed Gwen Meyer; Charlie's testimony renders Zoë's confession null and void.

"You think somebody made her say it?" Flack asks, eyes flicking from screen to screen.

"It's possible. She might have been threatened into confessing by the real killer, to take the fall for him, but…she believes it." I shrug. "She believes that it's her fault they're dead. At least, that's what it sounded like. She could have killed Dr. Pearce, though," I add. "Not Gwen, but Dr. Pearce…maybe."

"I'll take your word for it." He sticks his hands in his suit pockets; they're bunched into fists. I'm certain he hasn't slept, but then again, neither have I. If there's one way Don Flack and I are similar, it's that we're both so damn stubborn. Which, now that I think about it, is probably why we've been having so much trouble getting along.

"How was the sister?" I ask, tentatively.

"Helpful." The word's a grunt. "The vic obviously had somethin' bothering her; wanted to know if it was ethical to turn in a friend who was doing wrong. Mandy had no idea what she was bothered _about_, though she thought it might have somethin' to do with the exhibit. Apparently they've been working on it for months now." His eyes sweep the screens again. "They all look like hell."

"Mm." Like they've gone through a clothespress and a crucible and a hanging, all at once, and they've been scraped down to a thin pale imitation of what they'd been. Barbie's eyes are red, it looks like Ali's hair hasn't been washed, and Nick's jeans are horrendously wrinkled. "They look like they've lost a friend."

He doesn't answer for a long moment. "Yeah."

I drop down into the chair, and run my hands over my face. I'm exhausted, but if I drink any more coffee I'm going to vibrate out of my own skull. I've forgotten how long these things can take, sometimes. I wonder if the case will drag on for weeks. Months. I can't handle that thought. That's too much, too much anger and pain pressed into my head for too long – I'll go insane. Maybe I should just get out now.

But it's Charlie. So I stay sitting and say nothing.

The evidence file is getting fatter all the time: more interviews, more samples from the apartment, from the crime scenes. The computer techs are getting closer to cracking the encryption on Gwen's computer, but I have a sinking feeling that isn't going to yield much. Adam managed to track down the email address that was used to send Dr. Pearce the list of missing items, but it had been created on a public computer in one of the many, many little libraries in Manhattan on a guest account. Fake name, no cameras. Ergo, no way to track the bastard down.

We've released the drawing Aiden made to the press. Hopefully it'll give us a lead. Everything else seems to be twisting away, fluttering out of reach.

"If those items were sold, then there might be some record of it." My laptop is buzzing on the table; it's been on for hours, and the keyboard feels like it's coated in lava. I've forgotten my reading glasses again, and there's a pounding behind my eyes; I've been staring at the screens for too long, trying to find something that might not be there at all so I can ignore the walls of the observation room closing in on me. "Have we looked them up?"

"Adam's workin' on that right now." He glances at me. "You all right?"

"Not particularly, but I'll work through it." I tug on my earlobe, absently, and then struggle to focus again. "They're not giving us anything. They're talking in circles and their stories synch up. Not perfectly, but…they synch, even with the shaky alibis."

"Well, we caught al-Busiri on a traffic camera. He was speeding down Lex around the same time Jackson Pearce was killed. And when Gwen Meyer was killed he was up in Renssalaer visiting his foster family."

"He's a foster kid?"

"No. He was in the high school international exchange program."

Ah. "And Yunko?"

"Working. He's a DJ in a club. He was on the clock all night, both nights, and it's on the other side of the city. He couldn't've snuck out without being noticed."

"Damn." It would be so much easier if one of them had committed the murder. "It doesn't keep them from being the smuggler, though. Or smugglers."

"Smugglers as in plural?"

"Only someone with access to those documents could have edited them to make sure Dr. Pearce and Gwen Meyer would only pick up part of the shipments. One or all of these people had the opportunity and the means to fix up those documents so they could lift a few items from each shipment. It could have been one of them on their own, but my guess is it's more than one; someone edited the documents, someone snuck the pieces (always little ones) out of the museum, and someone else is keeping them hidden. It's a smooth operation, like a fire brigade."

"And it's one of these kids why?"

"Someone random stealing stuff from the museum feels guilty enough to send a note to Dr. Pearce about it?" I shrug. "That's kind of a stretch. And they're terrified to be here. Look at her." Barbie Harris is trembling. "And the two guys. They're petrified. They're afraid of what's gonna happen if somebody's figured out that _they're _the ones stealing crap."

"And Meyer?"

"They didn't kill her. They had a plan, and I don't think murder was ever part of it." I give him a beady look. "And neither do you."

His expression is pure dumb insolence. "Who, me?"

"Do me a favor, Flack. Don't dumb yourself down for my sake. I won't work with someone who pretends to be stupider than they are to make the other person feel better. It's an insult to my intelligence, _and_ yours, so quit it. Now."

"Yes sir, ma'am."

Now, that I can ignore. "I don't think any of these kids has it in them to murder someone, let alone one of their best friends. And even if they're smart enough to pull it off, I don't think any of them disrespect the artifacts enough to want to sell them on the black market. They're all too…they're archaeologists, you know? They want the artifacts preserved and protected, not sold to the highest bidder."

"So if someone blackmailed them into doing it, and threatened them with death if they talked…" He likes this idea. I can see the excitement in his eyes. "Could be kind of a stretch."

"Witness testimony, Flack. If we get one of them to talk, then we'll have the proof."

"Especially once we get the evidence to back it up." He rubs his hands together. "So basically we just have to get one of them to talk."

"But there's no guarantee they will, and if they don't, then we can't catch this son of a bitch." I close my laptop with a snap, and lean back in the chair, stretching my spine out. "I can't even think anymore without going in circles."

"You? Think? No."

"Are you permanently set to 'snark', Detective Flack?"

He smirks. "Possibly."

So. Damn. Frustrating. Though…at least he's not trying to 'figure out the voodoo'. I'm still not sure whether or not to be offended about that, and honestly, at the moment, I'm too dizzy to really care. It feels like my mind is stuck in a merry-go-round that's going crazy over the highway speed limit. I close my eyes, and simply listen to the cacophony of voices. Danny-Aiden-Barbie-Nick-Stella-Ali. Or, Ali-Aiden-Nick-Stella-Danny-Barbie. Or, hey, Aibardanlinicla. Maybe?

Evidence. Cold, hard evidence. There weren't any fingerprints on the box that there shouldn't be – the Wadjet Eyes, John McEnroe, the janitor, who probably brought the box in in the first place. The ushebtis had very few prints, since most people handle them with gloves on; no hope to pick up anything there. They were covered in limestone dust, though, which explained the stone dust Hawkes found in Dr. Pearce's hair. Adam tested both samples; they match. And the salty stuff on the sarcophagus was natron, and _those _two samples match as well, so the natron thing's fizzled out.

A warrant into the bank accounts of the Wadjet Eyes says that they haven't had any significant gains or losses in the past few months. Another warrant into the paperwork of the exhibit says that over twenty pieces – small ones, ones that would be easily missed, and some of the less valuable, though still ranking in the many thousands – have gone missing since they started bringing items in. Twenty pieces. I think Adam's still trying to figure out if any of them have gone on the market yet. Twenty pieces, and two people have died, and I need these kids to _talk_, damn them, but they're babbling like nervous fools!

Someone bumps my chair. "I'm gonna get coffee. You want coffee?"

"Not particularly. If I have any more coffee, I'm going to die of caffeine poisoning." Which, a week ago, I'd forgotten was possible. "You go ahead."

There's a moment of silence from behind me. Then Flack taps the back of my chair again, his expression inscrutable. He jerks his head towards the door. "Come on. They know what we're looking for."

"But—"

"I'm supposed to be the one keepin' an eye on you for the moment, and if I let you fall asleep in that chair then Aiden's gonna kill me." When I hesitate again, he gives me a flat, semi-annoyed look. "Honestly, Doc. Nobody's gonna die."

That one stings me to my feet. "Look—"

"Just come on. And no grouchiness," he adds, when I open my mouth to talk back. "You're runnin' on fumes, Dr. Carter. And you've been crawlin' up the walls for the past half-an-hour. You need to get out of here. And if I stay in this room any longer, I'm gonna shoot something, so I might as well tag along."

I can't speak. I'm stunned. He actually noticed. I don't like small spaces. Usually, only elevators and closets set me off, but I've been in and out of the observation room for two days now, and it feels smaller every time I slip inside, like a sock on a growing foot. Whatever my expression is, Flack's highly amused; his mouth twists a bit as he opens the door, and raises an eyebrow.

"Well? You comin'?"

Leaving the observation room is like breaking out of a jail cell. I can feel myself relaxing back into my skin as we get into the hallway, and then the main room, and then the reception area. I'm not sure where we're going, but, really, I'm too tired to argue about it. Miss Piercings glares at me as we head out the door, but I don't care; the only semi-fresh air of the street lets my lungs expand for what feels like the first time in hours. No more antiseptic smell.

We head east, and then cut down Mulberry Street to a small playground. It's crowded with children, and I realize – with a start – that it's Saturday. It's been over a week since Aiden's birthday party. It feels like years.

The playground is fenced in; Flack leans against the bars and lets out a long breath. I'm blinking like an owl in the sunlight, and it takes me a second to figure out that this is the destination. "What are we doing here?"

"Nothing, Doc," he says, half-laughing at me, and I can feel the tips of my ears going red again. "That's the point."

"Oh." Still half-wary, I reach out, and touch one of the bars lightly with my fingers. It's cold, despite the warmth of the sunlight on the back of my neck. "…I didn't know there was a playground down here."

"Kinda hidden away."

"Oh."

There's a bench. I take it, and rest the back of my head on the fence. My eyes slide closed as I sit there, listening to the kids shouting and yelping at each other. There are park buddies, mostly anxious new mothers, talking about inoculations and red dye #40 and ADD, and nannies who are chatting about college classes and jobs and boyfriends. There's even a tree, and when the breeze picks up, I can hear the leaves whispering.

I breathe the air in and let my mind drift. For once, I don't let myself think about the Safe House or the case or my sister or anything other than the feel of the wind on my cheeks and the sound of laughing kids. I think I might be dozing, or at the very least daydreaming. It's nearly two in the afternoon. I didn't realize the time.

For once, Flack stays quiet. I can still feel him, though, standing next to the bench. I think, lazily, that this is kind of a weird place for him to choose to unwind, and then realize that it's not so much of a place to unwind – though it is that – than it is a place to remember the reason why.

_There were a lot of reasons, Bridge. We all had a lot of reasons. The only one I can remember now, though, is real easy. I wanted to keep the people I cared about safe._

I miss Uncle Frank. He's one of the few members of my family I still talk to, and the only one who really understands me. I think my mother hates him so much because he's the one who used to let me ride in his police car and mess with the siren. I was always happy when he had to babysit Mayday and me, because then I could run into the crime lab (or try to) and talk to the scientists in there. Uncle Frank hated it when I did that, but he was always laughing when he caught me, so I never felt like I shouldn't. It's a miracle that I never contaminated any evidence.

He'll laugh at me when I tell him that I'm consulting. I know he will. My parents won't, though. If they hear I'm working with the police again, in whatever capacity, they'll blow a gasket. They never wanted me in criminalistics, or criminal psychology for that matter. They barely even tolerate the idea of me working for the Safe House. I think Mom wanted me to be a librarian or something. I don't even remember anymore.

Uncle Frank would like Flack, I think. They both have that bulldog aspect. Once they get their teeth into something, they don't let go.

Flack coughs, and I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He's staring across the street, and I can almost see the gears ticking in his head; he's thinking hard about something, that's clear enough. For the first time I wonder why he's brought me out here. He could have just told me to take a break. He didn't have to bring me out here. If he really is the jerk that I seem determined to think he is, he _definitely_ wouldn't have.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask. I can't help it; I'm curious. Also, I don't want to think about the implications of a nice Flack. A nice Flack could be infinitely more dangerous than an irritating, asshat-ish Flack. He glances at me, and even though I know the color by now, his ice blue eyes are a shock to my system, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Zoë."

Oh, hey, new record. Ten minutes without thinking about a case. Mental note: write it down and get Flack to beat the time. "What about Zoë?"

"Why would she think it was her fault?"

"She was part of the scheme." But the instant it comes out my mouth I know that can't be true. She and Gwen were in love. If I learned anything from their apartment, it's how close they are. Were. Zoë wouldn't betray Gwen by destroying her exhibit.

Or would she? Was that the betrayal that the thesis was talking about? Maybe.

"It'd explain some things," I add. "Like why she thinks it's her fault that Gwen and Dr. Pearce are dead."

"I guess." He still looks doubtful though, and with an effort, I get to my feet.

"What are you thinking?"

"I dunno." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Look, after Dr. Pearce and Gwen Meyer, Zoë di Angelo clocked the most hours in that exhibit. She wanted it to be a success. She wouldn't sell the pieces of her own free will. I don't think any of those kids would. Like you said, the pieces would mean too much to them."

There's a glimmer at the end of the tunnel. "So the backer reached out to them and _made _them do it. We've already thought about this."

"Exactly. So, how'd he know about the exhibit in the first place? How'd he know that there'd be a big Egyptian artifacts exhibit ripe for the taking, _months _before it was even advertised?"

The glimmer turns into a firework. "He had a way in. _Before_ the smuggling even started. He _knew_." I stare at him. "Flack, he has to be at the Met."

"We need to get those kids to talk," he says, and together we leg it back up the street.

* * *

><p>It's Barbie Harris who eventually cracks, even as Nick Yurko talks in circles and Ali al-Busiri keeps his mouth shut. She talks, and then we tell the guys she's talked, and they're nothing less than relieved. They're also terrified, and demand that either they stay in the interview rooms until this is all over, or we put a guard on them, or <em>something<em>, because once the guy learns they've talked then they'll be killed too. At least, that's what they're thinking, and I'm not so sure I can blame them.

"We don't know his name," Barbie says, linking her hand with Ali al-Busiri's and resting it on his thigh. "He sent us emails. He's always watching us; he knew if we thought about telling someone."

"Which one of you sent the email to Dr. Pearce?" Aiden asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Nick Yurko shifts a bit, his beaded blonde dreads clicking together.

"That was Zoë. She thought, you know, if we told Dr. Pearce, he'd call the police or something. He'd be able to stop it. We didn't think…" He swallows. "We didn't think he'd end up dead."

"Gwen always knew something was wrong," Ali says, in a clipped voice. "Always. I think she figured out what we were doing. There was a box of ushebtis we were supposed to drop off on the way to the Met, but she volunteered to take them instead. She…she panicked when one of us offered to do it. They're valuable ushebtis; they're made of stone, have inscriptions, the whole deal. We don't usually get ones that are so intact."

Barbie squeezes his hand. "We panicked when we figured out one of them was missing. She must have been trying to hide them, something, but…she had to bring them to the exhibit or Dr. Pearce would have figured out something was wrong." She takes a gulping breath.

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"_He_ said if we told anyone, he'd kill Gwen and Dr. Pearce. He said if they learned about it, he'd kill _us_."

"And you took him seriously? They were only emails."

"You don't understand. He takes photographs of us, at the Museum, at school, everywhere. He knows where we live, where we work. He could kill us whenever he wanted," Nick snaps. "If we'd called the police ourselves, he would have known about it, definitely."

"So he contacted you by email. Always the same address?"

"Yeah. Um…do you have a pen?" She writes it out for us: kings dot bench at gmail dot com, and Aiden grabs it and takes it out of the room, probably to turn over to the computer technicians. Hopefully, it'll be easier to track down than the address Nick Yurko used to email Dr. Pearce. I grip the back of my chair in both hands, digging my nails into the wood. I'm very, very glad I'm not in that room. There's too much pain and fear in there. It would drive me crazy in a second. "It was always that email address. Maybe…once a week?"

"Once or twice a week," Ali agrees. "He'd tell us what items he wanted, and then Zoë would change the lists that were sent to Dr. Pearce, and Nick or Barbie or me would get them out. Sometimes we'd make copies so Dr. Pearce wouldn't suspect anything. We'd leave the originals in different places around the Met. In Dumpsters, sometimes, or in newspaper boxes, or sometimes we'd drop them off with a security guard."

"A security guard?"

"At the Met."

Danny slides a copy of Aiden's drawing over. "Is this the guy?"

Barbie's trembling, and she bites her lip so hard I can see blood welling around her teeth. Ali can't look at it. Nick nods. "That's…that's him."

"What's his name?"

"Rick something."

Security guard. Rick something. It's enough. Flack's on the phone before I can blink. "Adam, I need you to run a name through the museum database. No, you _can't_ do it later. I need this guy's name _now_." He covers the mouthpiece with one hand. "You talked to Charlie about doin' a line-up?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Nick continues: "I remember…I saw Mr. Sanchez talking to him once. But…" His brows furrow. "It can't have been Rick doing it all. He doesn't have access to the storage areas, _or_ the exhibit. He wouldn't be able to take the pictures of us, ever." He fingers the drawing. "How did you get this?"

"You're sure that's the name?" Flack says from behind me. He scratches it into his notebook. "Spell it for me, and then call Truby, I want a team for this guy."

"What's his name?" I ask, when Flack hangs up. He's already halfway out the door.

"Richard McEnroe."

McEnroe. That sounds familiar. Why does that sound familiar?

My hands still on the keyboard.

The intern, John McEnroe.

Blonde, blue-eyed John McEnroe.

Nervous John McEnroe, who had tried to stop me from picking around the exhibit.

Too eager John McEnroe, who had been very quick to shove Zoë, then Ali, then Barbie under suspicion.

John McEnroe, who had worked with the Wadjet Eyes nearly every day for the past year.

John McEnroe, the photographer.

John McEnroe, with the brother with a gun.

John McEnroe, who knows every single piece in that exhibit, and probably every single piece out of it.

I bolt up off my chair. "_Flack_!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

...mwahaha.

**Pecan Tweet:** Awwww! You're fabulous! :D And, don't worry, when I'm out of town I don't even bother to take my computer with me...unless it's to write. Hm. Maybe I should say, "I don't check my email or FF or anything while I'm out of town," instead? But yeah. Thank you for all the sweet reviews, it was lovely to get all of them at once.

**yaba: **Being Captain Obvious is good sometimes. :D So don't worry.

**ExodusBeteNoire**: I remember having a teacher burn magnesium during class, and we all had to wear sunglasses and couldn't look at it straight on...it was amazing. So bright...but yeah, I meant in terms of heat, lol. :D I love chemistry. But only sometimes. Other times it's like, ew, get it away from me. (And when it comes to Danny...yeah. I think before Lindsay (BL?) he's like that. AL, though...she gets him to hold his tongue. Either that, or just say that sort of thing about _her_. :D Yeah, I love Lindsay.)

Notice! I'm currently packing up and getting ready to move back into my school dorm, so posting will be incredibly weird for the next month or month and a half. PLEASE VISIT MY PROFILE FOR MORE INFORMATION.

I AM NOT DROPPING ANY OF MY STORIES. I AM JUST MOVING AND SETTLING INTO THE RHYTHMS OF SCHOOL. SO POSTING WILL BE WEIRD.

...warning accomplished. :D


	12. Dumpster Diving

**1.12**

"So?" Aiden aims her pole cue, lining up her shot, and makes it, sending the 3-ball into the hole; I swear under my breath, ignoring her smirk. It's almost nine o'clock, and, according to Flack and the rest of the team, they've found Richard McEnroe, and he's talking like he's been given a verbal laxative. John McEnroe and Zoë di Angelo, however, are still AWOL, and it's bothering me.

Aiden's off-duty for the evening, and when she found me lurking in the break room, waiting for news, she dragged me out to a cop bar that I think is called Sullivan's. Pool tables, and _loads_ of chatting cops, definitely not the place I'd go on my own, despite some of the uniforms in here. If I was into the uniform thing, I'd be all over that guy at the bar.

Well, if I have another glass of wine, I'll be all over the guy _anyway_. I make a mental note to tell Aiden to not let me have another glass.

"They'll track the guy down," she adds. "Don't freak out about it. We're waiting on a warrant to get into his credit card accounts; that should come through within the hour and if he uses them, we can track him down. And we've sent alerts out to every way out of the city, _and _released his photograph to the media. We're gonna get him, and we'll find Zoë di Angelo, too, so why are you so worried?"

"I just…" I shrug, and bite back my triumph when she screws up her next shot. There's fifty bucks riding on this game, after all, and I could really do with fifty bucks. "I dunno. It's the first case I'm consulting on and I just…I really, really want him caught."

"Oh, honey, I remember that feeling."

"So do I, but I didn't freak out _nearly _this much my first big case in Tucson." I line up the balls, aim, and shoot; the 8-ball goes into the pocket. The white rebounds, at a perfect angle to the 6, and I wander around the table, calculating the best shot. "I mean, that was _way _bigger than this one. There was this coyote bringing a bunch of immigrant girls over the border to work down on Miracle Mile -"

"Miracle Mile?"

"That's where all the prostitutes work." Aiden grunts, and I continue. "Anyway, so we catch the guy, and he's shouting at me in Spanish, and there are _fifteen girls _in the back of his semi-truck, and none of them speak English, and I remember taking their prints and feeling awful because even though they were tricked, they're going to be deported anyway, and Mexico is the one place they _don't _want to go back to." Wow, I over-emphasize things when I'm buzzed. I clear my throat, and make the next shot. Boom, ball in the hole. "And then I look at this bastard who brought them here to have them sell their bodies, and he calls me every name in the book, and offers to put me in my place, you know, on my knees. I nearly broke his nose for it, but at the same time I thought, Hey, I caught him. He's not gonna mess with these girls any longer." One ball left. I can do this. "And he's still in jail, I think. I haven't checked up on him. God, I don't even remember his name."

"_My _first big case? There was this Irish gang downtown, big turf war, I was working one of the murders. We caught the guy. He was out of lockup the next day. Friends in high places." She groans when I make the last shot. "Oh, _come on_!"

"Pay up." She's grumbling about it, but she does it, and I have to resist the urge to flap it in her face. I'm a bit more buzzed than I realized. "Victory!"

"Shut up."

"I am magnanimous with my victory." She's given it to me in two twenties and a ten; I give her the ten back. "You, my dear, can buy another drink. Just make sure I don't have any more."

"I'm good with that." She waves the ten at me, and then vanishes towards the bar, and I start pulling the balls out of the pool table again. There are a couple uniforms waiting to use it; one of them, tall and dark haired, grins as we pass each other. It's not Flack, and that's a bit disappointing, which is something I'd never admit sober.

I kind of want to go and annoy him now.

Oh, for God's sake, Bridget! Yes. Don Flack is a (very) attractive, level-headed, highly competent homicide detective. All of these are facts. He's also incredibly annoying, stubborn, hyper-focused, and...well. A non-believer. (Not that you can have a belief in psychology, because psychology _is_.) All of these are also facts. So, I'm acknowledging facts. Acknowledging them as facts means I don't have to go absolutely insane working with him. I just have to finish the case, disengage, and get the hell over it, and work with Aiden only in the future. Aiden, Adam, Mac, or Stella. One of those four. Not Danny. And definitely. Not. Flack.

I'm soliloquizing, my head's gonna pound in the morning, and I haven't even had that much to drink. Lord, I am such a damn _lightweight_. I sink into the bar stool closest to Aiden, and close my eyes. People are chatty here; I can hear voices from all around. "Kill me now."

"You always get depressed when you drink." She gives me a beady look, and then pats my shoulder. "Don't walk home, Bridge, okay?"

"I wasn't planning to. I'll get a cab. Or go on the subway, or something."

"Cab. I'll pay for it if I have to, but I don't want you on the subway. You know how many rapes we process from the subway?"

I scowl at her. "I know the statistics, Aid."

"Good." She smiles. "Take the cab before I kick your ass."

"Yes, ma'am." I don't get up, though. I'm content here on this chair. My eyes drift over the walls for a few minutes; Aiden coughs, and catches my attention again. "Hey, Aiden?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you talk to anyone else? From school, I mean. You know, from CUNY. Do you talk to anyone else?"

"Sometimes," she says. Her glass hits the counter with a clunk, and suddenly she's wary, watching me out of the corner of her eye. I wonder why she'd do that; it's not like I'm going to kill anyone, after all. "Why?"

"I was thinking about Regina the other day, that's all. At your birthday, actually. You know? I was just wondering where she was, and that made me think about everyone else. Lukas and Paul and...everyone."

She has her fierce face on, even though she's trying to stifle it, and I cringe a bit. Aiden's fierce face usually means heads will roll. But curiously, she's quiet for a long moment, swirling her drink absently, not looking at me. "…oh."

I look at her. "Aid?"

"Nothing." She grimaces, and then corrects herself. "That I can tell you right now. In any detail."

"Is something wrong?"

She laughs, the sound completely without humor. "You could say that."

"With you or with them?"

"Just Regina." She sips her drink, and then pays for it and asks for water. "Reggie isn't having the best year."

She wouldn't be telling me that if she didn't think I would need to know about it sooner or later. I look at her, ignoring the chatter of the other cops around us, and wonder if prodding will end up with me getting a pulled earlobe. (I learned that from Aiden, after all.) Then I slip an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. "Let me know if Reggie needs to talk to me. And tell her I miss her. Okay?"

Aiden takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, lets it out, and then tucks an arm around my waist and squeezes back. "Thanks, Bridge."

We stand like that for a moment.

"You coming in tomorrow?" she asks, and pulls away. I grab my coat and shrug it back on.

"Depends on whether or not Messer wants to act like a voyeur."

She waves this away. "Danny's a flirt. Ya hafta ignore it. Though…" she snickers. "You should've seen your face. It looked like you coulda fried an egg on it."

I ignore this, though the tips of my ears go red at the image. "Was he on drugs?"

"He can be kinda obnoxious when he's exhausted. So are you, as I remember." She puts on a falsetto voice that I very much hope sounds _nothing _like me. "_I was having a dream about _Harrison Ford_, Aiden! Don't wake me up when I'm dreaming about Han Solo_!"

"_I did not say that_!"

"You did, and I'd have proof if you hadn't broken the tape." She sighs. "You always did have a sad, sad addiction to science fiction."

"I'm _so _leaving now. I don't think I'll be able to come in tomorrow, I need to process some of the case files. Simon's organizing 'em funny."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Aiden pulls me back, and hugs me again, harder this time. "Be safe, okay? Call me when you get back to the Safe House."

"Yes, _mom_."

"I mean it, Bridge. The city can kill you if you're not careful."

"So can the desert," I counter, and kiss the top of her head. "You're the sister I should've had, you know that? You really are."

"So you're depressed _and _maudlin when you've been drinking." She's pleased, though. "I'd forgotten that. I'd hate to see what you're like when you're really drunk."

"I get even more maudlin." It's why I don't get drunk. I don't like spilling all my secrets to people I don't even know. "And if I drink too much I get angry. That's why you've never seen me really drunk; I don't like what I turn into."

She looks dubious at this, but she nods anyway. "Go home, Bridge. I'll see you later."

The outside of the bar is startlingly quiet, especially for this part of the city; the (kind of) fresh air does wonders for my head. It's busy, the way it always is, and I'm already settling in to wait for a cab when someone touches the back of my shoulder.

_Aiden, _I think, and turn, but it's not Aiden. For a second I think it's the guy I saw in the bar, the one that looked like Flack. Then I realize it _is _Flack. "Oh." I blink at him a few times. "…hey."

"Glad I caught you, I thought you might have left for the Safe House by now." He's crackling with energy again. "I tried your cell but you didn't pick up."

I check my phone. It's dead. Oops. "I guess I forgot to charge it last night."

He waves this off. "We think we've figured out where the artifacts are."

In that instant, I don't care that my head is foggy and my mind is probably the slowest thing on the planet, aside from frozen molasses or a drugged sloth. I snap awake. "Where?"

"Rick McEnroe rented a storage unit about six months ago a few blocks away from the Battery Park apartment. It's not that far from the Lawn, either." I'm thinking the same thing he is, judging by the expression on his face. "I know technically you're only supposed to be workin' a few hours a week, but…" He goes awkward. "Thought you might like t'see it end."

"No, this is fine." I check my phone again – still dead – and shove it into my pocket. "Just lemme go tell Aiden and I'll be right with you. And…um, I might need to borrow your phone."

I call David to let him know I'll be late home (somehow, he's not surprised) and fight my way back to Aiden to tell her not to freak if I don't text her. She shakes her head at me, and as I head for the door, calls after, "He's workin' you to the bone, you know!"

"I'm working myself!" I call back, and wink at her before vanishing out the door.

The storage unit is less of a storage unit than a closet on the twenty-third floor of a building a few blocks away from the apartment that the McEnroes' share; room 3250. Flack knocks, but there's no answer; he glances back at me.

"Don't look at me," I say. "I'm not the detective here."

"Funny." He knocks again. "NYPD, is anybody in there?"

No answer. Not even a clatter. He keeps his hand on his gun as he gestures the super forward, and the guy unlocks the door and flicks on the light before stepping back, out of our way.

It stinks of salt in here; layers of unopened boxes and tubes of papier-mâché and paint line the walls. On the bottom levels of the shelves squat boxes that I recognize from the exhibit – nothing I've seen myself, but the same sort of boxes with the same sort of markings and notices. _Highly fragile. This side up. Do not drop. _The room is bigger than I thought it would be, maybe more like a millionaire's closet than anything else, and there's room for both Flack and I to wander around without even brushing past each other.

"Do you think he was planning on making copies?" I say, pulling a can of paint down from one of the shelves. It's bright, metallic gold. "He'd have needed Nick for that, he was the one that was learning how to restore artifacts."

"Or Dr. Pearce," Flack replies.

I wonder if the ushebti is in here, and then discount that idea. It looks like the only thing we _haven't_ been able to track down is that ushebti. And the ushebti is probably what Gwen Meyer was killed for, that single missing statue. There are some things in here I do recognize; there's a pectoral on the table, a detailed drawing (dimensions and all) lying beside it. It looks like the beads from another necklace are cupped in a bowl next to the drawing as well. When I pull open one of the drawers, it's loaded with photographs, not only of the artifacts at the exhibit but of the people working with them. Ali. Barbie. Nick. Zoë. Dr. Pearce. And Gwen, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, crouching by the foot of a statue. She'd turned up to catch sight of the camera and struck an automatic pose: flashing her fingers in a victory V, a paintbrush tangled in the middle of it. I let out a breath, and close the drawer again.

There's a clatter. I glance back at the super, but he shakes his head; he's standing on the threshold. Flack tilts his head, like a dog; when the clatter comes again, he gestures me back towards the door and draws his gun. It's towards the back of the storage room, coming from one of the cabinets. I peer around him, careful to stay a few feet back (he'll get grumpy otherwise) as he turns the handle and opens the door.

For an instant, there's nothing. It's too dark in there for me to see. Then the door swings open wider, and it's Zoë di Angelo, her wrists strapped to the wall above her head, her knees tucked up against her chest, her mouth taped over and her eyes squeezed shut. She cracks them open and looks up at us and freezes, her eyes going huge; her pupils are about the only thing I can see. Flack lowers his gun, and behind us, the super makes a shocked sound. "What the _hell_?"

Zoë looks beyond all of us, and lets out a muffled sound behind the duct tape, but John McEnroe is already bolting; he pulls down one of the chairs behind him, and it crashes against the wall. Flack's already after him; he vanishes out the door, and I'm stuck with a complaining supervisor and a woman in handcuffs going into a panic attack.

I couldn't tell if McEnroe had a gun; I hope he doesn't. Flack's armed, but the little bastard's probably snake-quick; there are some advantages to being short, after all. I crouch next to Zoë, pulling off my jacket and draping it over her. "Sweetie, I need you to look at me, okay? Do you know where he keeps the keys to the handcuffs?"

She shakes her head and begins to cry. She's only twenty-two, I remember, and looks about twelve right now. I look up at the super, who's staring shamelessly, and snap, "Go make coffee for her. _Do it_," I add, when he looks ready to argue. "Do you have any wire cutters?"

Wordlessly, he pulls a pair from his belt, hands it to me, and then leaves, and I pull Flack's phone from my pocket where I left it and dial. He picks up on the eighth ring. "Yo."

"Danny? It's Bridget." I would've called Aiden, but she's probably still in the bar, and her phone will be turned off or at least put on silent.

Pause. "…really."

"I'm using Flack's phone, mine's dead. Listen, I need you to send a team of uniforms to…" Damn it, I can't remember the address. "Look, it's a building on the corner of Albany Street and South End Avenue in Battery Park City. We're on the twenty-third floor, but Flack's gone after McEnroe and I need you to bring your kit."

"Why the kit?"

"Just…bring the kit, okay?" I stand, grab a plastic bag from one of the nearby boxes. "Please."

It must be something in my voice, or he's snapped into work mode, because suddenly all the teasing immediately flies out the window. "I'll be there ASAP." He says, and I hang up without a thank you and shove the phone into my jeans pocket. Then, on second thought, I pull it out again; it has a camera function. Zoë stares up at me with huge eyes as I stand, take a photograph of the cabinet with her inside, and then crouch again. "One second," I say, and snap another photo, this time of the handcuffs around her wrist, making sure to get her face in the shot, before clipping them through the chain. Her hands fall to her sides, and she immediately crosses her arms over her chest, curling up into a ball. Downstairs I hear someone shout, and I grit my teeth.

"Sorry, this is gonna hurt." I pull the duct tape off her mouth, and drop it into the plastic bag. Suddenly her gulping sobs are audible; she's starting to shake, going into shock, and _where the hell is that coffee?_ Zoë tugs at the handcuffs still around her wrists, and I touch her shoulder. "No, honey, those have to stay on for the moment, just until the detective gets here. Okay? I'm sorry, I know it's hard. Just hold on one more second and we'll get you out of here, okay?"

She beats at the back of the cupboard, still sobbing, and begins to rock back and forth as I clip through the duct tape around her ankles, photograph it, peel it off, and stick that in another plastic bag. I seal both bags with a roll of packaging tape that's on one of the shelves, and then I have to help Zoë up out of the cabinet. She's been stuck in there for days now, and her knees are shaky.

The moment I get her to her feet, she throws her arms around me and nearly collapses again. She's bawling, whispering something over and over, and I have to scuttle awkwardly sideways in order to get her the hell out of this room and onto the bench outside. I don't think I'm getting my jacket back. It's not until I get her sitting down again and wrapped up and the bags of tape sitting next to us when I finally figure out what she's saying.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, over and over and over again. A tear trickles down her nose, and falls off onto my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

><p>He shouldn't be surprised when McEnroe goes down the fire escape.<p>

Well, he isn't really surprised, per se; more pissed off than anything else. Flack _hates_ fire escapes. He's always hated them, ever since watching his brother climb one from the outside like an idiot and then fall and break both his legs and nearly snap his own neck. Jem had to be in a wheelchair for three months, with the rest of the house maneuvering their lives around him and trying not to piss him off, and hadn't _that_ been just a merry bundle of laughs.

So of course McEnroe goes out on the fire escape, because there's no way he could just make this easy and stop running. Flack crawls out of the window after him, and starts down the stairs. He can hear sirens going off, getting closer, and he hopes that means someone called some uniforms, because he really, really doesn't want to have to chase this bastard down an alley as well.

McEnroe's about three flights down already. Flack jumps the last four steps and whips around the corner, trying to move faster. It's hard to run down stairs without your feet flying out from under you. Down another flight, and then another and another – _why the hell was this place on the twenty-third floor anyway? _He's catching up, slowly but surely; McEnroe's a scientist, not a cop; he probably doesn't run to clear his head, either.

He's just a flight away now. Flack clears his throat. "You're not gonna like what's gonna happen if you don't stop runnin', McEnroe!"

McEnroe leaps over the edge of the fire escape, hits a dumpster, sinks into it for a moment, and then begins to scramble through the garbage. Flack pauses.

_Oh, you _have_ to be kidding me._

But no, no one's kidding him. The kid keeps scrambling. He's not moving very fast, but he's moving, and the more he's moving, the further away he gets.

Flack sets his hands on the guardrail, takes a deep breath, and vaults after him.

He's never quite realized how he hates dumpsters as much as fire escapes until this moment. This. Exact. Moment. The impact jars his teeth in his head, he seems to have landed in a pile of leftover McDonald's bags complete with moldy Big Macs (the impossible is true, it seems; Big Macs can, in fact, mold. Eventually.) and stuff that would be better off in a compost heap, and it's like he's trying to walk through sludge or big foam cubes like you saw in gymnastics academy pits, under the vaults or the rings, i.e. a phenomenal pain in the ass.

Where the hell is McEnroe going, anyway? Towards the road? If he has a car, or if he catches a taxi or something, they're royally screwed. He swings out of the dumpster, hits the concrete, and keeps running. McEnroe's starting to lag now, probably not used to running so hard or so fast, but he's still too far away, has too much of a head start. He's going to make it out into the street.

A blur of motion hits McEnroe from the side at the head of the alleyway, and they both go crashing into the pile of cardboard boxes and old cheese that cushions the corner of the alley. Flack slows to a jog, catching sight of Danny, who has his gun drawn and aimed at McEnroe's head; the little bullet that knocked him down, though, is struggling to get McEnroe's wrists behind his back. Flack crouches down next to her, and cuffs the bastard, ignoring the swearwords pouring out of McEnroe's mouth. He's calling Bridget every name in the book and then some, and the venom isn't reserved just for her, either.

Bridget crawls off, stands up, and leans against the wall to catch her breath. She's panting hard; it looks like she's been sprinting too. It's an electric moment, like sparks snapping down his spine when their eyes meet; there's a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose that he's never noticed before now. Her eyes are almost black in this light. Then she grins at him, and says, "You have a banana peel in your suit collar, y'know."

He can't decide whether he wants to shake her head off her shoulders for shattering the moment, clap her on the back for nailing the runaway intern, or drop the banana peel down the back of her shirt for commenting on it. So he picks none of the above, and pulls the banana peel out of his collar, saying, "Hey, it's the new thing. You should try it sometime."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. There are paramedics crowding around the front of the building; Just In Case Of Emergency. Bridget glances at him, and then points at the vans. "I…think they're taking Zoë out now. I should probably stay with her. She's in shock, she'll want a semi-familiar face."

"Yeah. I'll let you know how this guy turns out." Though McEnroe can wait until after he's had a shower. A long, long shower. Yes. The son of a bitch can sweat in lockup for a while. Maybe all night. He's been running on fumes for hours now, and he's not sure he can keep it up any longer. But it'll be another hour at least before he can even sign off on putting McEnroe into lockup, and he can feel his bones aching. Not just the bones, but the marrow.

She sends him half a smile. "Guess I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah." She's halfway down the street when he thinks of something else to say. "Get some sleep!"

She raises a hand and waves it a bit, as if to say, _You too, stupid_, before climbing into the back of the ambulance with Zoë di Angelo. The woman wrapped up in the blanket is probably half a foot taller than Bridget, but the way she's shuffling and clinging, she could be two feet tall.

The doors slam shut behind her.

* * *

><p>It's a week and a half before I convince Charlie to come with me to a line-up, and by that time, I haven't heard anything more on the case than the news that the ushebti used to bash Dr. Pearce's head had been hidden in the bottom of Gwen Meyer's desk. Using it to kill Dr. Pearce, according to John, was poetic justice.<p>

It was Rick, it turns out, who committed the murders. John told him what to do, of course. It was John who lit the cigarettes and used them to get the location of the ushebti out of Dr. Pearce (they were more valuable as a set) and it was John that manipulated the rest of the circumstances, but he has no blood on his own hands. Which is an absolute bastard. If he's convicted, though, (and I'll kill to make sure he's convicted) he'll still be behind bars for a long time for kidnapping Zoë.

She comes to the line-up too. She's out of the hospital two days after she's admitted. The Met isn't pressing charges for the role of her and her friends in the smuggling scheme, but she still flinches every time there's a loud noise, and I've caught her crying four or five times while visiting her, first in the hospital and then at home. (I know it's not exactly protocol, but I'm a consultant, dammit; I can visit her if I want.) She and Charlie have, surprisingly, connected; he's been visiting her almost as often as I have been.

Charlie's stiff at my side while I sign us in at the front desk. Miss Piercings sweeps her eyes over him, and gives him a look that threatens all manner of merry hell if he dares to touch one single item on her desk; I fight the urge to glare back at her, and raise my eyebrows at Charlie. "You ready for this?"

He steels himself, and suddenly I can see him as an adult: determined, solid, dependable. I hope it's not a pipe dream. "Yeah."

He doesn't protest when I put an arm around his shoulder and squeeze.

Since it was Rick McEnroe he saw, today the observation room is filled with bulky blondes with acne scars. Flack explains the process to Charlie, pointing out twice that we can see them, but they can't see us (Charlie's eyes are wide, but he nods sharply) and then we have to leave. Stella remains to supervise; Charlie keeps sending her little questioning glances, as though checking that she's still there.

Flack waits until the door is shut and we're down the hall, away from the observation room, before he asks, "Is he okay?"

"He's freaked out." I sigh, and brush my hair back out of my face, wishing I'd remembered to bring a hair tie. "He's been freaked out ever since you visited, actually. He's way quieter. I'm hoping this helps."

"Yeah." He looks at me for a moment, and then says, "You look better. Not as tired."

"You too." Flack does look a lot better. The case he's working now isn't running him ragged. Because he _is _working a new case; I saw the file on his desk when we met up with him earlier, and I've heard from Aiden that there's a perfect skull she's going to make a face for. She was so excited that she nearly buzzed through the phone. I bite my lip and watch him out of the corner of my eye as he rests the back of his head against the wall, staring at the ceiling, and wonder why it's suddenly so awkward again.

"So I guess this is the last we'll be seein' you, huh?" Flack says, and I jump and blink at him like he's thrown acid in my face. "I mean, your certification expired 'n all."

"Oh." Automatically my hand goes to my neck, where the lanyard should hang. It's true; I had only filled out the documents for consulting on this single case, to help Charlie. I had convinced myself that it wasn't healthy for me to do anything more. It _won't _be healthy for me to do anything more. It'd be best if I turn and walk away now and forget I ever did this. The nightmares will die away eventually. Because I'm having nightmares; it's Zoë in the cabinet all over again, only instead of Zoë, it's _me _in the cabinet, and it's dark and close and I can't breathe for the terror of it. "Right."

"So it wasn't so bad as you thought it was gonna be, huh?" His mouth quirks a bit. "And we caught the guy."

"Yeah." I say.

"And he confessed."

"Yeah," I say, and he mock-groans.

"Aw, come on, Doc, don't leave me hangin' here. And don't make me ask, either, because I don't like askin'."

"Excuse me?"

He scruffs a hand through his hair, leaving it totally mussed; I have to clench my fingers into fists to keep myself from automatically fixing it. "You like makin' things hard, Doc, don't you?"

"Possibly."

He studies me for a moment with those shocking blue eyes, and frowns. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the smile bubbling in my throat from showing on my mouth. "…possibly."

"Look." He scuffs his hair again, and then scowls at me. "You get on my nerves and you're stubborn as hell and don't you _dare_ get me started on that whole psychotic psychology thing—"

"Yeah, that's gonna make me like whatever you have to say."

He gives me a look, and then continues. "But we work well together."

"Us?" I say, and raise my eyebrows. "Maybe."

"We do," he repeats. "And I know you might not like hearin' that, because you only joined this case for Charlie—" he jerks his head back towards the observation room "—but it's true."

Energy's quaking in my rib cage; it's like that moment in a movie, the climax, that sends thrills and emotions rushing through your body so fast you feel like you're shaking, but when you lift your hand to check, you're perfectly still; it's your insides that are trembling. I cross my arms over my chest to hide it, and watch him, and he watches me, and we're standing there staring at each other like a pair of maniacs in the middle of the 12th precinct.

I give in first. "….yeah, we do."

An eyebrow goes up. He seems to be fighting a smirk. "See? That wasn't so hard."

"Shut up." I eye him for a moment. "And you're not gonna ask."

"Nope." Hesitation. "Not unless you make me."

"Well, you're gonna have to spit it out, Flack, because I think they're almost done with their line-up."

He glares at me for a moment, but it's teasing, I can see that in his face. Then he huffs. "Are you gonna stay or what?"

I can't help it now; I grin at him, and I think it's the first time I've done it, because he looks like I've just thrown a firework at him. "Yeah. You know what? I think I am. But," I add, before he can say anything, "you should know, I want the interesting ones."

"The interesting ones?"

"The weird cases. The complicated ones. The _psychologically compelling_ ones."

He grimaces at the word, just like I thought he was, but his answer is instant. "Done."

"And I'm not giving up my job at the Safe House, so I can't be here every day."

"Of course not." He raises an eyebrow at me. "And no lecturing me about common sense and psychology."

"Only if you quit ragging on it."

"Do you have a sense of humor, Doc, or no?" he says, but holds out his hand anyway. "Deal?"

I don't even hesitate. I reach out and take the offered hand, and ignore the way it makes my skin tingle. He really is very attractive when he's smiling. "Deal."

We shake on it, and it's done. I have to meet with Mac, of course, and with Clary again, and get all the long-term contracts and waivers and fees and everything organized, but as far as I'm concerned? It's done.

I am now a full-time consultant for the New York City Police Department, and for some reason, I feel better than I have in years.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/9/12: Minor edits were made.

Okay, so I have had the craziest day ever, so reviews would be awesome ways to make me feel better. :(

This chapter was so bloody fun to write. :) Yay, Flack POV.

So I'm starting the next 'case', and I'm trying to figure out how it's going to go. That case will probably be a lot longer than this one was, because I want it to last through to at _least_ the middle of season one...and cases are not magically wrapped up by the end of the episode, like CSI likes to show. There will be court cases and stuff that they'll have to go to, and Bridget will probably act as an expert witness, which I'm already looking forward to writing. For some reason, I'm really addicted to court scenes. XD

Dunno when I'll be able to update next, but hopefully it should be soon.

Hugs and kisses, loves.

**Pecan Tweet:** :D Nice to know I'm not the only one with no time thanks to school, lol. It doesn't help that I always pick the really fun (read: difficult) courses. What can I say? I'm a geek, and I love it, but sometimes the homework loads I get because of it are a bit much...

**Lady-Buster:** You are very welcome, my dear. I was very happy to help. I love doing that sort of thing.

**yaba:** Well, now the 'Egyptology' case is over with...mostly. I think some of it will carry over into the next case. But there will be more. I promise you that. :D And they will not magically be friends after this. They will still have (a lot of) conflict. They're both too strong-minded to just...magically be all happy-dandy.

**ExodusBeteNoire:** I always forget the names of characters when it's written in first person. So don't worry. ;D I have to literally stop and think about it.


	13. Genuine Death

**1.13**

"I've just always wanted to work with at-risk youth, you know? It's, like…my calling."

Silas Meyer lights his cigarette and sets it to his lips, taking a deep drag of it before I can even say anything. I don't bother to wave the smoke away. It's not intimidating; in fact, it just makes him look like an idiot. I have to hold my breath for a second though, so I don't choke. "…really."

"You know? I mean, I came by to say thank you, for everything you did to find my sister's murderer—"

"It wasn't a solitary effort."

"—and…I dunno. The place just…inspires me."

So angry, drug-addicted, shoplifting teenagers inspire him. He should just become an _avant-garde_ artiste and save himself the trouble.

How the hell did he find me in the first place, anyway? I glance at the computer, and then curse Google. I'm probably the first name that crops up when you search _Dr. Bridget Carter, New York_. I've never thought about it before, but I hate Google. _Hate _Google. With a blazing, fiery passion that will not be denied.

I fantasize for a second about beating in the heads of the people who founded Google before tuning back in to the obnoxious college student. "Put that out."

"Huh?"

"This is an aid center for at-risk youth. We don't smoke in here. We don't allow nicotine or any other drug past the front doors. It's part of the requirements for entry. No alcohol, no drugs, no pimps, no gangbangers. And no adults," I add, thinking about Minzy's father and the notice from the court that's currently sitting on David's desk.

_A month and a half. A month and a half until Minzy doesn't have to go back to that bastard. Until then, though, he can make things really, really bad around here, especially if he keeps throwing the word 'cultist' around. Son of a bitch_.

"Oh," Silas says, and looks for a place to stub out his cigarette. Finally, he uncaps his mostly empty water bottle, drops it inside, and screws the cap on again. As I watch, the inch of water in the bottom turns a sickly yellow-brown color. "Sorry."

I turn on the fan with my toe, and it blows air in his face. I can't turn him _away_, not really, not as a volunteer. We're a 501(c)3, and we need more volunteers than we already have in order to keep running smoothly. But I really, really, _really_ do not want this guy anywhere near me or the kids. And it's not just because he keeps flirting with me, either. "I'm sorry, we actually have most of our volunteer positions filed at the moment. If you have a donation to make, you can talk to Simon at the front desk."

"What if I don't want to talk to Simon?" He gives me a semi-pouty look, and I nearly bash his head in with my paperweight. "C'mon, Bridget. I really do want to help."

_And I really want to kick you in the ass on your way out the door, but I can't do that._"I'm aware of that, but I'm not sure the Safe House would be the best fit for you from a volunteering perspective. You don't have any experience with any of the duties that you'd be saddled with, and – can I ask you something? Frankly, I mean."

"You can ask me anything you want, Bridget."

"Dr. Carter," I correct. "Have you ever volunteered before?"

"No."

"What about interning?"

"Nope." His lips pop on the P.

"Have you ever worked with at-risk youth before now?"

"I figured I could pick it up as I went along," Silas says, placidly, and under the table I feel a foot brush against my calf. I pull back, and tuck my feet safely under my chair.

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

There's no point in responding to this. "I just don't think volunteering here is the best idea. Especially considering you're commuting from Jersey. I think there's a similar place in Newark that you could work at."

There isn't. I'm such a liar. I'm going to the special hell. The one that's reserved especially for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre.

The phone rings. I lunge for it. "Yes?"

"You have a call from the NYPD, Dr. Carter," Simon says, and I glance at Silas, who's watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"Why didn't they call my cell?"

"Flack says it's dead."

Flack. Of course it would be Flack. I almost, but not quite, give in to the temptation to roll my eyes, and cover the receiver with my palm. (Also, why do I keep forgetting to charge my phone? I always plug it in when I go to sleep. It's been slipping my mind lately, I suppose.) "I'm sorry, Mr. Meyer, I need to take this call."

An angry look flickers over his face, puckering his forehead. "That your bulldog?"

"Who it is, is none of your business. _Goodbye_, Mr. Meyer."

He stands, albeit unwillingly. "I can come in tomorrow if you want?"

I ignore this too. "If you want to go collect a volunteer application from the front desk and fill it out, I'll see if I can find you a placement with us. If not, there's always Big Brothers, Big Sisters. Take your water bottle with you, please."

I wait until he and his noxious yellow-brown water shut the door to my office behind them before pressing the button for line one, and saying, "Well, that was faster than I thought it would be."

"Two weeks."

"Yeah, but still, even in New York, good cases are hard to come by."

"Shoulda told ya, Doc, the 12th gets all the weird ones. We ask for them especially."

"Aw, that's sweet of you." I open my file on Minzy, pulling the photocopy of the court order out and scanning it again. Meeting this Friday to discuss the viability of the case in court. I don't know the judge, but Clary does, and she's hoping she'll be able to get Lockyer to back down – if she gets evidence from Minzy. I haven't seen Minzy since the letter was issued. Simon has; I think she's staying at his apartment, but I don't want to pry. "But don't you have your hands full with the tour bus skeleton?"

"No. That ended about a week ago."

"Oh."

"Mm." There's a crinkling from the other end of the phone, and I wonder if he's calling on a lunch break. I wouldn't be surprised. "Mainly it was the lab handling it, and when they handle a case they get possessive. Doubt I'll hear anything about it face to face until they send out a press release."

"You know, I've heard a couple of different things about that skeleton. The kids are coming in with wild stories. It's a gang hit that they've covered up. It's a hoax. It's the skeleton of the Piltdown Man, only it's the _real _Piltdown Man. And it's a Manhattan Man. Obviously."

"And all of those would be wrong, but you probably know that already." Long pause. "Wait, Piltdown Man?"

"That was Simon's. He's having an affair with paleontology that he _thinks_ I don't know about."

"Damn limey."

"Watch it, Irish. Simon's a nice kid." And I'm going to offer him a job as soon as his internship finishes. He's good at what he does, and I'm not about to even imagine what it's going to be like without his help around here. "So…case?"

"You remember that accidental death that was in the news a few days ago?"

It's kind of pathetic that the first thing I think is, _Which one?_ "The guy who fell off the interior balcony? Wasn't he drunk or something?"

"He was intoxicated, yeah. But no, wasn't an accident. And the guy?" He pauses, like an actor on stage, and if he was in the same room as me right now I'd chuck my shoe at him. "Actually a girl."

"Wait, what?"

"Jun Takayama. Nineteen." When I don't immediately respond, he says, "I swear I'm speakin' the truth."

"The whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" I can't help it. I get quippy when I'm thinking.

I can practically see him frowning. "Don't pull a lawyer on me, Doc, please."

I force myself not to smile, and then fall quiet. A man falling off of an interior balcony turning out to be a woman. A bit of a blatant mistake for people to mix up the sex of the victim. Had they been in costume? Simply androgynous? Transgender, maybe. "…I'd tell you what I'm thinking, but I don't want to corrupt my own observations before I even make them." I rub the back of my neck absently. Making any assumptions about the victim now won't serve anyone well in the long run. "Where am I going?"

Dunkirk Hotel has a history, according to the plaque pasted to the marble doorway. It was named after the battle where over 900 British ships plowed across the Channel in order to rescue beleaguered British soldiers on the French coast. The Greenbaums – the many descendants of one Michel Greenbaum, Jewish refugee and French soldier – have owned it since its inception in the late 40s.

It looks like a knock-off of the Plaza, all white marble and inlay, with a French chateau twist; the walls are all draped in apple-green silk. There's even a burbling fountain in the middle of the main hall; I can see blood pooling on the other side of it.

I flash the badge that I've taken to tucking into my wallet – a card that reads _Consultant_ in very official-looking letters – and then duck under the tape. Flack's talking to someone in a suit that's a little too tightly-cut for the edge of propriety; I can see the earring in the man's earlobe from here. It's bigger than most of the dangling earrings _I _wear, and that's saying something. I can't count how many pairs of dangling turquoise earrings my family has foisted on me.

Tucson is the land of turquoise. Don't let anyone tell you different.

"Have you checked out these whack-a-doos?" Danny says in my ear, crossing his arms over his chest. In his torn jeans and Blink 182 t-shirt, he sticks out like a sore thumb in this land of cocktail dresses and suits. Or…Victorian dresses and suits, I realize, when I take a second glance at some of the women. Well, modified Victorian. I'm pretty sure that the corsets aren't supposed to be visible. Or that the skirts are supposed to be_quite_ that short. "It's an annual convention."

"For what?"

"Something-punk. Dunno." He digs into his pocket, and then pulls out a card and hands it to me. "According to the chief wazoo, I'd look damn good in a pair of goggles."

The card reads _The Five-Borough Steampunk Society_ in highly embossed, formal script; there's a gear inlaid behind the words. When I flip it over, there are names, too. _Andrew 'Endeavor' Devilliers, Society President. Lady Elinor Parson, Vice President_.

There's a flyer, too, but that's stuck to my shoe. I'm surprised one of the hotel lackeys hasn't leapt to collect it yet. It's an image of a sultry Victoriana, twisting to look over her shoulder with lips that are too puffy to be natural. _Steampunk Fashion Show_. There's a reward attached for first through third prizes. I'm still stuck on the card, though.

"Lady?" I say, crouching to collect the flyer.

"I know, right?"

"And a fashion show?"

"The whole point of the convention, apparently. All the…pieces…" he wrinkles his nose, as though he's talking about dead rats "…are upstairs in the grand ballroom."

"There's a ballroom?"

"_And _a billiards room, but don't get distracted, Doc," Flack says, tapping my shoulder with his notebook. He's come out of nowhere; I nearly drop the flyer. "They have a room for pool. _Only _for pool. They also have a pool, but that's in the basement."

"And a dart room, if you're interested," says the man in the too-tight suit, and I'm not surprised when his eyes slide down to Flack's ass when Flack turns away. A little irritable maybe, but not surprised in the slightest. "On the third floor."

"I think we got it, Mr. Greenbaum," Flack says, ignoring Danny's stifled chuckle. "We'll call you if we need anything."

"Call me anyway, gorgeous," he says to Flack. I cough politely, and raise my eyebrows at him. Greenbaum sniffs, sends me a poisonous glare, and then vanishes through a door marked STAFF ONLY.

"Don't say a damn word," Flack snaps at Danny. Danny grins.

"Wouldn't dream of it, gorgeous."

Okay. Enough. "Body, guys. We have a body here. A little respect, please."

They both blink at me, and I wonder if I'm so short they forgot I was there at all. Then Flack nods, and jerks his head to the fountain. "Right. We called Hawkes in. It's kinda messy."

"Falling off a seventeenth floor balcony will do that to you," I say, and ignore the way my stomach clenches at the thought.

The building is pretty much hollow. Well, I say that, but really it's not; forty stories means, of course, there's a hell of a lot inside it. But it's like someone's cored it, so there's a hole exactly through the middle, all the way up to the roof, which, for some indescribable reason, is painted with enormous cherubs. At least, they look like cherubs. I can't really tell from the ground floor.

There's blood spatter stretching at least ten feet out from where the body lies; the back of the boy's head is pretty much leveled. I can still see the face, though. He – or she, I'm not sure yet – is porcelain doll beautiful. His eyes are closed. The dark hair's chopped short, and a little unevenly, but it would have worked with his – her? – face. The hand is stretched out, almost even with my shoes. I shift around. "So how quick did someone run to the media? I heard it was a boy on the news."

"Probably within a minute of the body being found." Hawkes grimaces. "Morning, Bridget. Fancy seeing you here."

"Morning," I say, and then realize it. "Finally. My name. I'd almost forgotten my name hanging around with these two."

He jabs a thermometer through the skin of the victim's back, and waits for it to register. "You're still surprised?"

"Not particularly." I glance over at Flack again, who still looks irritable. "I thought you said this was a murder?"

"Oh, definitely," Hawkes says cheerfully, and points at a bloody patch on the victim's vest. He's actually wearing a vest. I have to process this information before I realize that what I'm looking at is, actually, a stab wound. Multiple stab wounds. Frenzied ones. "I don't think you can get that from falling seventeen stories. Especially when there's no knight in the fountain to stab you on your way down."

Well, _that's_ an image I'm never, ever going to manage to get out of my head. I straighten, clutching the flyer a little tighter than necessary. The victim's is nineteen, I know that, but he only looks about twelve. Like Charlie. Jun Takayama. "So why exactly did you call me up here, Flack? It just looks like someone shoved the poor kid over the edge."

"Best part's yet to come," Flack says, and flashes a hotel key card in my direction. "Shall we retire upstairs, my lady?"

Takayama was the only occupant of room 1710, but the staff, of course, have an extra key. The wall and door are coated in blood spatter, which, to me, means primary crime scene; one of the lesser techs is processing the handle, and glares at us as we go by. To be specific, he mainly glares at me. "Don't. Touch. Anything."

"Yeah, she knows," Danny says. "You want a camera, Doc?"

For an instant, I can't speak. Then I clear my throat. I have a video camera back at the Safe House. I need to start using it rather than depending on the crime lab for everything. Besides, video works better for me than photographs. "Yeah. If you have one."

Broken glass litters the floor. Someone's dropped one of the complementary hotel bathroom glasses – both of them, it looks like. There are still water stains on the carpet. And blood on the bed. Not a lot, just a pool about the size of my fist, but it's definitely there. Also, the sheets are rumpled. But that's not what's interesting.

Every single piece of glass in the hotel room has been shattered. The mirrors. The glasses. The lightbulbs. Even the hotel window hasn't escaped. The curtains are fluttering. Papers flap on the floor. They look like clothing designs. Someone's carved into the wallpaper.

A note is pinned to the wall with a flick knife. I can read the words from here. _Curiosity killed the cat._

"…and satisfaction brought it back."

"'scuse me?"

"The second half of the rhyme." I point at the note. "People always forget the second half. 'Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back."

"I don't think Jun Takayama ended up satisfied with whatever went down in here," Flack says, as Danny presses the camera into my hands and vanishes. I turn to look at the guardrail of the hall outside, and shake my head.

"No. No, I don't think he did."

* * *

><p>The fashion mannequins are three to a row, four rows long; twelve entries, ranging from elaborate Victorian dresses to French maid uniforms to outfits that would have blended in perfectly in an alternative World War One…complete with goggles. Jun Takayama's looks like a gypsy dress: a deep scoop neck, a coin-laced skirt, everything. It's actually one of the more subdued pieces, but it's good. The stitches are tiny and precise, too perfect for a machine.<p>

"He always hand-sewed everything." My guide can't be more than sixteen; her eyes are swollen and red. Her name is Amber, I think, but I'm not positive. "He's…he was really good."

"Were you close with him?" I ask, as Flack steps between a few mannequins. He's stone-faced, but he's eying the contest entries as though they're about to bite him. "With Jun, I mean."

"Well, kind of." She shifts anxiously. "I mean, I asked him out. We went on a date. And he told me…he told me he was transgender."

That answers one question, at least. "And that didn't bother you?"

"If you'd met Jun, you'd know he was a guy," she says, and even though her voice is still a little trembly, she's quite firm about this. "He told me…well, no. Elinor told me before he did. But I didn't care. He was a guy, no matter what he was born as. An _amazing_ guy. Beautiful and talented and funny and just…gentle. The gentlest person I've ever met." A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away with her fingertips. Her hands are covered in lace. "And I loved him."

Amber stares at me, as though daring me to contradict her. But there's nothing to contradict. I finger the edge of the skirt. "Is this Jun's only submission?"

"This year." She hesitates. "He made something for me too. But that didn't have anything to do with the contest. Besides, it's not like it was an entry or anything."

"What was it?"

Wordlessly she holds out her hands. For an instant I don't understand; then I spot the arm-warmers (or whatever they're actually called). They're fingerless, and made of black lace; they match her dress perfectly. Or she's wearing the dress to match them. Either way.

"They're beautiful," I say. Amber gives me a wary look, clenches her hands into fists, and stuffs them into her pockets.

"I know."

"Did you guys spend a lot of time together?" Flack ducks around from behind one of the mannequins, careful not to look in Amber's direction. "Or was it just for the convention?"

"My stepmom – Elinor – she's kind of a big Feeb."

"Feeb?"

"Five-Borough Steampunk Society. FBSS. Feebs. You know. Like cops call FBI agents feebies."

I look at Flack and raise my eyebrows. "Really? Cops call FBI agents feebies?"

"Depends on the cop."

I know that. It was a rhetorical question. "Do _you_ call them feebies?"

"Depends on the agent." He smirks. "And we call consultants cons."

"What, like convicts?" I wonder if I'm allowed to smack him in front of a potential suspect. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"So does that make me a con?"

"Depends on whether you're acting like a consultant or not."

Amber's staring at us like we're crazy. Maybe we _are _crazy. Still, it's unprofessional to be acting this way in front of a witness. I clear my throat. "How long have you known Jun?"

"Maybe two years?" She shrugs. "He moved to New York when he was seventeen. His parents didn't really….they kicked him out. Pretty much. From what I could tell."

"Where was he from originally?"

"Louisiana." Flack nods, confirming this. Amber doesn't notice. "Look…um, I'm sorry, but I don't really think I can…I can't handle this right now. I'm sorry."

I have to fight the urge to give her a hug. "One more question, and then you can go back downstairs, okay?"

"Shoot."

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Jun?"

Amber considers for a moment. Then she gestures to the room. The mannequins stare blankly back, behind goggles, under hats, veiled and hidden away. "You want them first, or do you want me to just print out a copy of the club membership?"

"That many?"

"And more." Amber pauses in the doorway. "He was the nicest boy I've ever met, Detectives. That doesn't mean the rest of the world saw him that way."

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

So I wrote this whole chapter to extensive repetitions of P!ATD. :) Drove my family crazy. But, since I'm leaving in a week, I bet they're gonna miss P!ATD soon enough...mwahaha.

**yana:** I love Bridget/Aiden friendship. Aiden was/is one of my favorite characters from_CSI: NY_, and I intend to keep her around. Which may alter canon. But I don't care, since she's awesome.

**matt-hardy-lover-101:** Why, thank you.

**Pecan Tweet:** Regina's gonna get a biiiig part in this arc, which I have entitled_Steampunk Mona Lisa_ for reasons yet unknown. Possibly because of P!ATD. Possibly because of Jun. I will go into more detail about him next chapter. He has this sort of ghost-like transparency in my brain...like...I don't know. It's difficult to describe. But he's very powerful for me, for some reason.

**Lady-Buster:** Hey! So I started _Welcome To The Jungle_. AND I LOVE IT, IF YOU DON'T ALREADY KNOW THIS! :0 Fabulous, lady!


	14. Insecurities

**1.14**

_Dear Rosario:_

_I've finally managed to talk to David about the possibility of you visiting next spring. Considering the current state of the Safe House, I think it would be better if you don't –_

No, that won't work.

_Dear Rosie,_

_If you want to come and visit in the spring, that's absolutely fine with me! The thing is, I don't think you'll be able to stay at the Safe House, and I _know_ your mom won't be comfortable with you staying in a hotel on your own –_

An image leaps into my head of Mayday reading this email, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. Even from over a thousand miles away, her fingers could close around my neck…

_Rosie,_

_There's a bit of a difficulty with you coming to visit during spring break. I'm fine with it, but I want to make sure your mom would be okay with it as well before jumping the gun. Also, we'd have to stay in a hotel for the time you're here in New York, because of certain logistical issues; the Safe House is my workplace as well as my home, so it would be difficult for me to squeeze you in there as well._

Now, that actually might work. I wince at the thought of raising the funding to stay in a New York hotel – a _decent_ New York hotel – for over a week, and then grind my teeth. Hell, if there's any reason I'm consulting, it'd be for this. Extra money means more availability means I can spend time with the people I care about, i.e. my favorite niece. My only niece, but even if I had others, she'd still be my favorite.

_If you want to send me the scheduling for your spring break, I can organize a few days off, and we can roam the city! What do you think?_

I end the email a few paragraphs later, after thoroughly dissecting her last email and asking the pertinent questions: did she get that book she wanted last month, what does she think of the latest movie that I know she's seen, etcetera. I know she won't be getting it from her mother, after all.

It mystifies me to this day how my sister can be so utterly disconnected from her own teenage daughter. It's not as though she and Rosario are all that dissimilar. Rosie loves horses; she loves crap reality TV; she absolutely _adores_ Harrison Ford (I blame Mayday for my own obsession with the man). It might be because of how early Mayday had her (May was sixteen when she ended up pregnant; Rosie's almost twelve now.) or it might be because of just…personality abrasion. Mayday is fierce. Rosie's just as fierce and it means for a lot of conflict.

Sigh.

I lean back in my computer chair (which is one of Charlie's many, many duct-tape victims around the house right now) and rub my eyes. I could always ask Aiden if I could stay with her for a couple of days when Rosie shows. That would be cheaper than going to a hotel. Also, Aiden will pretty much be never there, considering how busy she is because of her job. But then again, I'd feel like a louse if I did that.

_Hotel it is then, I suppose._

I should be getting ready to head over to the precinct right now, but I can't stomach the thought at the moment. I get more coffee, pulling my bathrobe tighter around myself, and settle on the TV room couch. The news is chortling in the background. Grand Master DJ Banner is dead. I can spot Aiden in the blurry background, and wonder if that's her new case.

Graham Lockyer. Even if I hadn't pissed him off so much that first day, we'd probably be getting sued anyway by now, but it still smarts. If it hadn't been for me, he probably would have just cited kidnapping instead of cults. Apparently, because Minzy dared to run away, we preyed on her innocence and initiated her into our 'cult.' David put on his stone-face when he saw the court papers, and he hasn't let me see them since.

_I want you to stay away from this, Bridget._

_Oh, like hell_, I think, but there's not much I can do when I don't even know when the court date is. And in the first place, this is probably all my fault. I'm too raucous to work with parents. I'm too in-your-face. I've known it for years, but it's never actually sunk into my brain that I shouldn't do it.

I'm a manager, and it's automatic for me to manage things, but this is one thing that I can't and really shouldn't even try to.

The judge is one David knows; he's going to meet with the guy this morning. Hopefully that means it won't be pulled into an actual court hearing. But I need to talk to Minzy, because if Minzy is really staying with Simon, that could royally screw things up.

Which means I'll have to talk to them both, and soon. That's just gonna be oodles of fun, I can see it right now.

"Hey, Bridget."

It's Charlie. He probably stayed in one of the guest bedrooms overnight; he's been doing that a lot lately. He rubs his eyes for a moment, and then comes and sits on the couch next to me, and sets his head on my shoulder. I hold still for a moment, and then brush my fingers through his hair and change the channel to Cartoon Network. He reminds me more and more of a little kid now. If there are other kids in the room, he's twelve-year-old tough Taquito again, but if it's me or Stella or Zoë, he's just a kid.

He's been spending more and more time at the Safe House too. I wonder if his parents are even looking for him anymore.

"Morning, you. I was gonna make pancakes, you want some?"

"Will there be chocolate chips?"

"…possibly."

"Then yeah."

Court dates can wait. I'll call David this afternoon and ask how the meeting went. And then I'll go and visit Minzy. For now, I have pancakes to make, and then a detective to stalk. I rest my cheek on the top of Charlie's head for a moment, and then get up. "You wanna help me make them?"

"Mm."

"You know where I hide the chips."

* * *

><p>Steampunk, according to a quick Google search (damn you, Google), is 'a sub-genre of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, and speculative fiction which involves a setting where steam power is still widely used, usually Victorian-era Britain.' According to the Five-Borough Steampunk Society website, the FBSS has been going on for over ten years, demonstrating the spirit of steampunk – a mix of new and old, modern and Victorian, and, above all, dependent upon steam, rather than coal and electricity.<p>

Or, as Flack puts it, "a bunch of whack-jobs runnin' around in corsets and skirts."

Of course, the thing I'm stuck on is wondering how the hell they get the steam without burning coal, but whatever.

I print out the dictionary definitions of the word 'steampunk' and then join Flack in the staff room on the first floor of the precinct, where he's been hiding for the past hour and a half. I think it might be because of the fairly angry-looking blonde woman standing by his desk. She's been there since I arrived, and her purse looks heavy.

"You want to tell me _why_ the model is waiting by your desk?" I ask, as I hand him the papers and flop back on the couch. One of the cool things about being a consultant is that I don't have to dress nearly so snazzy as the detectives have to. Well, I do anyway, sometimes, but today I'm in my gypsy skirt and that always puts me in a good mood. "Because she and Pierce look about ready to spit at each other."

Yes. Apparently Miss Piercings' actual name is Pierce. I revel at the irony.

Flack keeps his eyes steadfastly on the laptop he's working on, but I can read how stiff he is in the set of his shoulders. "She's still here?"

"Yeah. She tried to stab me with her nails when I went to your desk to get that file."

He grimaces. "Sorry."

I touch his shoulder, lightly. He's surprisingly warm. "She's the one who tried to stab me, not you."

"My fault though."

That's true. "What the hell did you do to this woman, Flack?"

"I didn't _do_ anything, Carter. It was one date. And now this." His eyes slide to mine, and I wonder if he wants to ask me a question. He has that expression on his face. "Apparently I'm the best 'escort' she's had in years."

Okay. Scratch that question. "Where'd you dig her up, in a debutante ball?"

"She stole my coffee, actually, and wrote her number on it." And that's the end of the discussion. "I'll go talk to her in a minute. Don't have the stomach for it right now."

"We could always sneak out the back door if you want," I offer, and when he raises an eyebrow, I feel the back of my neck go hot. "I mean, if she's stabbing _me_ with her nails…"

"You may have a point." He taps a few keys. "Found it."

Jun Takayama's MySpace page is black with violet trim, and the profile picture reveals that he had green eyes; something I hadn't thought about before. Something twists in my chest at the sight. Flack drops down on the couch next to me, transferring the laptop to my knees so I can explore the page more thoroughly, and then says, "You okay, Doc?"

"Huh?" I'm reading through Jun Takayama's General Interests. (_Artist. Designer. Eternal dreamer._) Sex is listed as 'male'. He looks male. Pretty rather than rugged, but male nonetheless. "You're the one with a stalker by your desk."

"I talked to Dave yesterday." Dave. David. The court order. I fight a scowl and fix my eyes to the screen. "I know we don't get along very well, Doc, but that doesn't mean I don't wanna help if I can."

My hands go still on the keyboard for a moment. Then I pull up Jun Takayama's last post, and say, "Thanks, Flack. I don't know if there's a lot you can do, but…that helps."

A hand brushes my hair. At least, I think it does. When I send him a look out of the corner of my eye, though, he's leaning forward to collect his mug of coffee, determinedly not looking at me. "Of course."

It's getting too touchy for my liking. I give him the computer back, get to my feet, and head to the counter so I can make some coffee of my own. "So what am I doing here today, Flack, other than looking at a MySpace page that you could have just told me about on the phone?"

Long pause. I can feel Flack's eyes boring into my neck. "Better than sittin' around the Safe House all day waiting for David to get back from the court hearing."

Okay. That's a little too close to the mark. "Minzy matters to me, Flack. She's a sweet girl and I _don't_ want her to go back to that son of a bitch."

"I don't want her to do that either, Doc, so don't snap my head off."

"I'm not—"

"You're tryin' to."

I slam a mug down, and when I reach for the coffeepot I realize my hands are shaking. _Deep breaths, Bridge_. I clench my fingers, and then set both hands on the counter. The tile's cool under my palms. "God. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He takes the mug from my hands, pours some coffee into it, and then hands it back. "That place matters to you."

He's like an X-ray. An emotional X-ray. If he keeps doing it, I don't know whether I'll be able to keep up my shields. I look at him for a moment, and add cream and sugar and chocolate syrup to my coffee. I think of Charlie and Willow and Wilder. Simon and David and Minzy. "Yeah, it is."

"When'd you start working there?"

"Three years ago. No. Wait. Almost four. I think." I'd just turned twenty-four, and that was…whoa. Um. Three years ago. I wonder how old Flack is. "Right after I left Tucson. I couldn't stand being there any longer. It was too…it was too close."

"It's a city, isn't it?" he asks, and I half-laugh.

"It's one of those big sprawling cities that feels like it's a mile square. People know people know people. It's not…I didn't like it. It was…" I struggle for a word. "It was oppressive. Partly because my family's there. But…I don't know how to explain it."

"And the Safe House?"

"I volunteered there when I was a student and David remembered me. And we needed a night-shift psychologist. So I took the job while working through my doctorate and now I'm assistant director." And I'm talking like a maniac. I sip my coffee. "Have we heard anything from Takayama's parents?"

"No. I've been leavin' messages, but no one calls back."

"Where are they, do you know?"

"Louisiana."

I nearly spit up my coffee. "_Louisiana_?"

"Problem, Doc?"

"No." My sister's ex-husband lives in Louisiana. Just a coincidence, I'm sure. "What part?"

"Baton Rouge." He drops back onto the couch again. "According to some of the witnesses from the hotel, Takayama showed up two years ago. He was homeless for a while too, but the Feebs gave him a job and he started staying with Andy Devilliers, AKA 'Endeavor.'" He crooks his fingers. I haven't seen anyone do that since high school. "I was gonna go see the bedroom today. It's in Lenox Hill."

"Don't you have another case though?" I ask. I saw the new case file on his case when I went to collect the papers on _this_ case. "You caught that DJ case, right? Do you have time to go up to Lenox Hill today?"

"I have time until Mac and Aiden bring someone in for me to torture." He gives me a sidelong look. "You tryin' to get rid of me, Doc?"

"No." Well. Maybe. "I'm just saying, I saw the murder on the news. It's…kind of bigger than this one. More publicity."

"I've done what I can do for the Banner case. Until Mac and Aiden give me another lead, or until the things _I've _been lookin' into turn something up – and the unis are doin' the footwork for me – there's no point in me hangin' around twiddling my thumbs."

This makes sense. But I still like I'm invading. I study my mug. "You'd have been a good life coach, Flack."

He considers. Then he shakes his head. "Nah. Not patient enough. Besides, this job's more interesting." He knocks his coffee mug against my own, lightly. "So, you wanna read more about the kid, or do you wanna dissect his room first?"

I consider for a moment, just standing there, watching him. Flack keeps shocking me, and I'm not sure if I can keep handling it the way I have been. Fighting the urge to lean on him (he's so tall, I could probably live in his shadow for the rest of my life and never be seen again), I finish my coffee, rinse out the mug, and turn back to the laptop to memorize the account name.

"Room. Maybe then your stalker will finally get the hint."

He groans. "Don't go there, Doc."

* * *

><p>I'm halfway under the bed of one Jun Takayama, searching for hidden secrets, when my phone rings, and I smack my head on the floor. Cursing under my breath (and ignoring Flack, who sounds close to laughter as he says, "You okay down there?") I squirm back out from under the bed and seize my phone. "Yeah?"<p>

"Bridget?"

It's Minzy. I can't think of what to say. Now that I know she's okay, I want to smack her. I mean, I _know_ she wouldn't go off and do something stupid, but adding an already highly anxious Bridget with no contact for weeks equals very angry Bridget. After a moment, I cough, and say, "Minzy."

"Simon told me David went to court."

"Yeah, he did." Flack raises an eyebrow at me. I rub the back of my head. "Listen, Minzy, where have you been? I know this has been hard, but that doesn't mean you get to run off and not even tell us where you're going. We were worried sick over you."

I can hear a long car horn on the other side of the line, but Minzy says nothing for a full minute. I open Jun Takayama's desk drawers in the meantime, sorting through them blindly. "Minzy."

"I'm here."

"I know this freaks you out, okay? But you need to come back to the Safe House. I need to know that you're safe. And don't tell me where you've been staying. I don't think it really matters anymore." If she's been staying with Simon, then it's better that I don't know, just in case the board of directors comes crashing down on us after this. Also, it could get Simon arrested for illegally harboring a runaway without informing her parents of her location. "And I'm not gonna make you talk to Clary, even though I really think you should, sweetie."

"…I know." She says. Her voice is hoarse. I wonder if she's been crying. "I don't want to."

"I don't think it matters at this point whether you want to or you don't. David went to court today, and if he can't get Lockyer to back down, you're gonna have to talk about it whether you want to or not." I don't want to be too hard on her, though, so I temper it with, "But we'll see what happens after today. David knows the judge. He might be able to convince him that this legal crap is just…crap. Okay?"

Another long pause. Then she clears her throat. "Okay."

"Where are you, honey?"

"Times Square."

Which explained the loud background noises. "I'm not that far from there right now. So I want you to stay where you are and then I'll come and find you as soon as I can. All right?"

"But—"

"What's happened doesn't matter to me, Minzy. I just want you home. Okay?"

I think she's crying, but she doesn't want me to hear it. After a minute or two, she says, "Okay" in a voice that's so soft I can barely hear it. Then she clears her throat and says it again, stronger this time. "Okay."

"She okay?"

I hold the phone in both hands, wondering if it's creepy that I have to lean on the bed of a dead man for support. Today is a really, really, _really_ bad day for investigating. I can't even focus on Jun Takayama _now_, and I'm sitting in his room staring at the posters he's stuck to the ceiling. Mostly fashion stuff. _Well, he certainly has a one-track mind, that's for sure._ "I don't know."

"It's that guy from Southie, right? The one who's filin' against the Safe House."

"Graham Lockyer, yes." I'd like nothing more than to rip his face off at this point. How _dare _he accuse us of mistreating the kids. How _dare_ he try to blackmail Minzy into coming back. How _dare he_. I run a hand over my face, and then stare at the ceiling some more. "Flack, I dunno if I can keep working today. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be panicking like this. I really shouldn't. I know that there's absolutely no way this is gonna go forward."

"But you're still worried."

To my horror, I feel heat pressing against the back of my eyes. I pull my knees up to my chest, and curl into myself. "I'm sorry. I keep dumping things on you today. I shouldn't."

Flack holds his hand out. I look up at him, nearly snapping my neck in the process, before taking it and letting him pull me to my feet. "You see anything in here?"

"Not really. Once I know more, maybe it'll be different." Then again, I haven't been looking very hard. "We'll be able to come back?"

"Probably. And you filmed everything, remember?"

That's true. I grab my camera and shut it down. I feel like a loser; I shouldn't be this panicked about a court hearing. There are loads of court hearings every day.

_But those court hearings don't have the potential to ruin your life_.

Flack studies me for a moment longer, and then jerks his head towards the door. "Come on. I'll drive you over, yeah?"

"Yeah." He's halfway out the door when I get the courage to finally spit it out. "Thank you."

He pauses, and grins at me. His eyes are practically dancing. "You're my partner, Doc. What else am I supposed to be doin'?"

I've never thought of it that way before. Don Flack and Bridget Carter. Partners in crime. Or against crime, I guess I should say. I haven't had a partner since Miles, and Miles has been dead for a few years now. The video camera quakes in my hands, and before I can second-guess myself, I say, "I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm."

"You let me decide that for myself, okay?" he says, and gestures towards the door. "C'mon, we'd better go pick up your runaway before she bolts again."

* * *

><p>Later, after he's dropped a weepy Minzy and a stone-faced Bridget off at the Safe House, and he's safe in his own apartment with a mug of something more alcoholic than he should probably be having while in the middle of not one but two murder investigations, Flack lets out a breath. There's energy leaping inside his skin; he feels like he should be running right now, running and running, trying to work through the thoughts that are tumbling through his mind.<p>

_It's that guy from Southie, right?_

_Graham Lockyer, yes_.

He wonders if she noticed that her hands had clenched into fists at the very mention of the guy's name.

Mac calls again, and Flack lets it go to voicemail. He already knows what Mac's gonna say. He can call him back in an hour. He's already wired in that he's done for the afternoon; until Hawkes comes up with something from autopsy, or one of the CSIs gives him something evidence-worthy to chase, he officially has nothing to do.

The file that Gerrard gave him about Bridget Carter sits like a poisonous mushroom in his locked desk drawer. He's already decided not to study it. He doesn't like having the upper hand over a partner. Or someone who's supposed to be a partner. _If she wants me to know, she'll tell me._

Gerrard wants to meet her too, considering she was the one who managed to take down John McEnroe. Which is just going to be a regular barrel of monkeys. Flack pulls his phone down off the counter, feeling like an idiot for sitting on the floor rather than on one of the chairs, and sends her a short text (_Gerrard wants to see us tomorrow_) before calling Mac back. There's a suspect to be interviewed for the Banner case.

_It's that guy from Southie, right?_

_Graham Lockyer, yes_.

Flack remembers Graham Lockyer. Tall and thick-set, with flat gray eyes. He'd had his hand up to punch Bridget Carter in the face when Flack had walked in the door. He scowls, and tightens his grip on the mug. He hasn't actually had any of it, which is why he's so concerned about the tightly controlled fury that's spiraling through him. He's not so unprofessional as to come back to work after a quick break smelling of wine.

The phone buzzes. Bridget. _Okay. When?_

How the hell is he supposed to know? _Come in when you can._

_See you at ten tomorrow_. She responds, and then the screen of the phone goes dark and it shouldn't feel like a slap. But it does. And that's dangerous.

He wonders how the hearing went. He wonders if Graham Lockyer was there for it. He really, really, _really_ shouldn't be thinking about crushing the guy's spine. No matter how many problems it would solve. He shouldn't be thinking about it, because Bridget Carter is his partner and a consultant, for God's sake. She's a grown woman. She can take care of herself.

_I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm._

_Maybe it wasn't the best idea to keep working with her after all,_ he thinks, and sets his glass on the table so he can get up and go back to work. He hopes the suspect they need him to interview is an idiot. Or, better yet, an asshole. It'd be better if he had some way to get this anger out without pounding Graham Lockyer into the mat.

And then once the interview is over, he'll beat the crap out of a punching bag. Because he needs to get rid of this, because if it keeps on going, it'll start to affect his work, and that is one thing he really, really cannot allow it to do.

He checks the phone again. _Ten tomorrow_.

And it's pathetic, but he's looking forward to it already.

Flack makes a mental note to check himself into a mental hospital, grabs his jacket, and heads back out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

**GENERAL NOTE - **_Steampunk Mona Lisa_ should wrap up Season One (I told you it might go for a while!) so, my friends, expect Regina and Lindsay to come in soon! I want to go deeper into the Regina plotline, as opposed to just letting it be the way out for Aiden to leave the show, so things might get a little intense...just a warning to y'all.

**Alice Quarantine: **Why yes, you did! ::dances with fellow _Firefly _fan:: Sometimes I can't resist throwing little things like that in. And because I love _Firefly _so much, it naturally exudes into everything I do. Haha. And I adore Panic! so some of their songs will probably be cropping up throughout the Steampunk Mona Lisa arc.

**Pecan Tweet:** Amber will probably pop back up, but after the whole 'court' drama is over. And the case will pick up in speed next chapter, I'm certain of it. (I also think Flack and Bridget will start to get closer during this arc, especially because of the whole Graham Lockyer/Minzy thing. I have a few more ideas too...so hang on. :3)

**yaba**: Silas Meyer will probably pop up again, just because I love writing Bridget's inner dialogue while he's in the room. She gets so acerbic, it's hilarious to me. :) And I'm glad you're enjoying!

**Kaycee-x John Cenaholic**: I will keep Aiden in the story if it is the last thing I do. But I'm also going to bring Lindsay in...so I'll have to figure that out.

**matt-hardy-lover-101**: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I plan to bring back the Greenbaum Menace sooner rather than later...possibly next chapter. But it should be fun to do.

Love you!  
>-Shu<p> 


	15. Miss Scarlet In The Hall With The Dagger

**1.15**

Flack wonders if it would be legal to set his boss on fire.

It's not like he hates Gerrard. He actually likes Gerrard, most of the time. The captain's good at what he does, a good boss. Sure, maybe he doesn't get along very well with the crime lab – well, mostly he doesn't get along with Mac – but that doesn't make him a bad person. The whole floor knows that the captain would go to hell and back for one of his detectives, even if he complained the whole time doing it.

He just doesn't understand why it's necessary for the captain to cross-examine his psychologist.

Also, why Flack has to be there for said cross-examination.

"I'll be honest with you, Miss Carter," Gerrard says from behind his desk. Flack crosses his arms tight over his chest, steadfastly keeping his eyes away from the redhead perched in the chair across from Gerrard's. "I'm not much of a fan of psychology."

"I think I've come across that view before, Captain."

"Really."

Bridget slides her eyes to Flack for a moment, and muffles a grin. "Yes, sir."

Gerrard glances at Flack too. Flack keeps his face still. He pictures the gas can, the match. The flames. He'd probably get away with it, too. It's not like he doesn't know how CSIs work a crime scene. "You were working the Metro case?"

"Parts of it." Bridget leans back in her chair. "Mostly, sir, people call me in, and I give them the answers I can about the situation they put in front of me."

"Judging by the case notes, you seemed highly involved."

"That case required a high level of involvement. Sir," she adds, thankfully; Flack's pretty sure that Gerrard would have a seizure if a connie came in and called him Gerrard _to his face_. Even the detectives on the floor don't get more than a 'Captain' or a 'sir'. Names are strictly prohibited.

Gerrard makes a noise somewhere between a 'yes' and a grunt, and drums his fingers on the desk. "And it was Taylor's idea to hire you as a consultant."

"Yes, sir. He scouted me. If…that's the appropriate term."

"You should be working with the lab, then." His eyes latch onto Flack. "You have an answer for me as to why _you're_ the one escorting Miss Carter around, Flack?"

"It's Doctor," Bridget corrects. "And according to my contract, I'm working for the NYPD. So there shouldn't be a problem with who _escorts_ me anywhere. Sir."

The pause is about as sticky as syrup. Flack resists the urge to pound his head into the wall. He should have at least warned Gerrard how in-your-face, don't-give-a-damn-what-you-think-of-me-as-long-as-I-get-the-job-done Bridget Carter is. Or at least have warned Bridget that Captain Gerrard isn't the sort of person you want to be on the wrong side of. Probably the fact that the psychology consult that has everyone in a tizzy upstairs is female has already put a pretty big hit in Gerrard's opinion. The fact that Flack is standing here defending a female psychologist is just another nail in the coffin.

As it is, Gerrard's already looking for a reason to tear into him for something. He does that to everyone who gets too close to the lab. It's probably petty, but at the same time, it's understandable. Internal Affairs discourages more than friendly relationships: between departments, between officers, between cops and consultants, everyone. Though it isn't so strictly enforced in the lab because Mac runs the lab and Mac doesn't really care about that sort of thing as long as you manage to get your job done.

_Oh, for God's sake_. Flack clenches his hands into fists behind his back, hoping it won't crumple his suit, and clears his throat. "The doc's a psychologist, sir. Doesn't talk the same kind of science as the kids upstairs."

"Though I have experience in criminalistics, criminal psychology is my forte. Sir."

Gerrard lets out a long breath, and then pulls his files forward, flipping one open with his pen. He studies it for a long moment. Flack glances at Bridget, quickly; she's leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, arms tight over her chest, watching the captain.

"You graduated from CUNY?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not exactly the most prestigious pedigree."

Bridget smiles, her eyes cold. "Are you a snob, Captain Gerrard? I went to a school that offers more run-of-the-mill degrees than Harvard or Yale, maybe, but in a psychological profession, couldn't that be considered a good thing? You know, more...earthy."

Gerrard grunts again. "Mind explaining why you broke it off to head back west?"

"Actually, sir, yes. I do."

Staredown. Flack shifts from foot to foot. If it comes to blows, he is most definitely _not _getting in the middle of it.

"Sir," he says, finally, and Gerrard glares at him. "We kinda have a scene to go to."

"I thought that was all done with?"

"The doc saw something on the tape she wants to check out again," Flack lies easily, and comes forward to stand behind Bridget's chair. Gerrard lifts an eyebrow, but makes no comment. "We posted a guard overnight, sir. Poor bastard probably wants to get relieved."

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Gerrard waves a hand – universal signal for _whatever_ – and says, "I wanna talk to you later, Flack."

Goody. "Yes, sir."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Carter."

"Doctor." Bridget corrects again, and holds out her hand for Gerrard to shake. "Nice to meet you too. _Sir_."

* * *

><p>"I don't like him."<p>

"Not surprised," Flack says, slamming the door of the driver's side and putting the key in the ignition. "Pretty sure he didn't like you either, Doc."

"I'm not surprised about that, considering the way he kept calling me 'miss.'" God, I could punch someone right now. I _hate_ people like that. People so content in their own power and authority over other people that they feel perfectly at liberty to belittle when possible and to bully when not. "I intimidated the hell out of him."

"Because you're an intimidating woman, Doc, I mean, come on." He shrugs. "You have a doctorate in psychology, don't ya?"

"You know how many night classes I've had to take over the past couple years to get that doctorate? I've been working on it since Tucson." Night school for years, even while I had been working on the force as a rookie. It's why I still wake up so early; morning classes every day of the week will do that to you. And before that, I was taking college classes to supplement my high school credits in order to just get out of Tucson faster. I was pretty much done with my associate's degree by the time I graduated high school. God bless community colleges. I glance at Flack. "What about you, you have a degree?"

"Sure, from the school of hard knocks." He grins a bit. "Had to, growin' up with my family."

"You have a family?" It's kind of a jolt. I mean, I've never thought about Flack's family. Notably, his fat wife and three small children. I realize I don't know if Flack is even single. It hits me like a ton of bricks; the idea that he isn't (single, I mean) is more than a little sickening. Flack glances at me, eyebrows going up.

"Yeah, didn't you? Or did you just spring from the sea foam, Doc? Some people are known to do that."

"I didn't mean to sound so shocked. I just…I don't talk to mine, is all." Except for Rosie. And Uncle Frank. And sometimes my sister Mayday. But not all that often. I haven't talked to my parents in months.

"'Course I got a family, Doc." He spins the wheel, and the car pulls out into traffic. "Two parents, siblings."

So no wife. "What kind?"

"Three. Two brothers and a sister." A bike messenger tries to splat on the windshield, and spins away at the very last second. Flack slams on the brakes, punches the horn. "Son of a _bitch_! I should impound your goddamn bike!"

"Watch it, Flack, your road rage is showing."

"Damn bike messengers." Ignoring the blaring of horns from behind us, he puts the car back into gear and drags forward again. "What about you, you have siblings?"

"A sister." I hesitate. "She's adopted. My parents thought they'd never have a kid – my mom had cancer before I was born. So…they adopted Maya. When I came along, I was just…you know in those books, where that sort of situation crops up, and the adopted kid turns into the extra?"

He nods.

"It was the opposite with us. Mayhem was the golden girl. Gymnast, cheerleader, everything. Until she ended up pregnant, she was the star."

And I was the shadow in the back of the room. I don't say that though. It's way too much information. I shut my mouth, and turn to look out the window again. There's a woman standing on the corner, waiting for her turn to go over the crosswalk; she's wearing a lemon-yellow jacket, the kind of color that you'd only see in raincoats. Her dark hair is cropped around her face, and she's blocked off from the world by a pair of huge clunky headphones, the kind I always try to remember to buy and never manage to find.

"Teen pregnancy?"

"Yeah. You know, the sort of thing that I don't want to see happening to any of my kids? But she didn't abort it; I have a niece who makes up for my sister's shortcomings." I shrug myself deeper into my jacket. "Anyway, it doesn't really matter. I mean, they're all in Tucson anyway."

"Doesn't mean they're not family."

"Are you kidding? I think my father tried to disown me when I went into criminal psychology. They wanted me to be a librarian or a musician or something tame. I don't know. Just…not what I'm doing." I take a breath and let it out slowly. "So what about you, how'd you get into this?"

"Born into it. I was the oldest, I ran around the station like an idiot when I was a kid. Kinda natural, I guess." He shrugs.

"My uncle let me do that. He was a homicide detective. He retired ten years ago. Now he makes his own aloe vera and sells it at farmers' markets for ten percent off to cops. Basically told my parents to piss off when they tried to get him into the neighborhood association."

"I think I like your uncle."

"You would," I say. And then something hits me. Foam. Seashore. "Flack, did you just compare me to a Botticelli painting?"

The tips of his ears go red. "No."

Awkward. I can feel my neck heating up, and turn away to clear my throat. "So did Danny or Hawkes turn up anything I don't know already?"

"Yeah. Full of scientific gobbledygook, but I figure you understand the long words, right, Doc?" Flack flips on the blinker, drumming his fingers in a tattoo against the steering wheel. I think I recognize the beat. Something from a movie soundtrack, if I'm not much mistaken. "File's in the back."

"Depends on how long these words are. I'm a psychologist, Flack, not a bloody genius." I twist and grab the file anyway. Tissue samples, fiber evidence, stains… "Isatis tinctoria?"

"Yeah, I was hoping you know what that one means, because I don't have a clue."

"No, I don't." I hesitate. "We should ask Adam."

"Mm."

I go back to the file. "So what do you think?"

"What do I think about what?"

"Don't be cute, Flack. You've been pouring over this since they gave it to you, you left coffee stains on the papers."

He looks at me for a moment, eyebrow going up. Again. "You ain't bad, Doc."

"So they tell me." I close the file. "What do you think?"

He opens his mouth.

"About the case, smart guy."

"Fine. Ruin my fun."

Another turn, and – true New York – we hit traffic. It's gonna take a while before we even get near the hotel, so we're pretty much stuck with each other for half an hour. Easy. God, I love New York.

"Jun Takayama was a transgendered man living in an apartment in New York City after gettin' kicked out of his home in Baton Rouge."

"There are loads of those, Flack." I scowl a bit. "So you think Amber, maybe?"

"Nah, she was cryin' for real."

"What did you think of the other witnesses?"

"Lotta them kept their mouths shut." He shrugs. "New York, remember? But I wanna talk to a few today. And you're comin' with me."

"Do I get a say in this?"

"Nope."

"Then lemme at 'em, bossman."

"Bossman." Flack repeats, grinning a little. "You know, I could start to like that name."

I think I may have created a monster.

The hotel is still crowded with steampunk paraphernalia, including what looks like a modified sonic screwdriver from Doctor Who on the floor of the lobby; I prod it aside with my shoe as we head in, and duck under the tape. Danny waves. He's checking the garbage cans (can't say I envy him that little chore) and when he comes up for air, there's a bloody knife in his hands.

"Too small to make the wounds on your vic." He says, before either of us can ask; he slides it into a paper bag and seals it with red tape.

"So why is there blood on it?"

"Fabulous question. And speakin' of all things fabulous—" Danny grins at me. "May I say, Doc, you look fabulous today."

I look like I just rolled out of a meat grinder, so I'm pretty sure he's joking.

"Watch it, Messer. That could be called harassment," Flack says, before I can respond. I pause, stepping on his foot lightly, but say nothing. Danny grins again.

"Oh, I see."

Denial bubbles on my lips. Before I can say anything, though, Flack taps my shoulder blade, lightly. "Aiden here or no?"

"She's downtown workin' the DJ case still."

"And you're supposed to be doin' what, exactly? Other than playin' around in garbage cans."

Danny scowls. "Shove it, Flack."

"You talk to your mother with that mouth?" Before Danny can respond, Flack waves his hand at the room. "Where's my witness?"

"Upstairs. She ain't too happy. Still in her lady outfit." He shrugs. "'swhere you wanted her to go, right?"

"Perfect. Now shoo, Messer. Don't make me call Mac."

"You're playin' hardball here, Flack." Danny warns, but he winks in my direction anyway, collects his things, and vanishes out the front door of the hotel. I think Flack has to read my mind again, because he shrugs as he leads the way to the elevators.

"Danny's not the kinda guy to spread a rumor. Or make one up for that matter. So don't panic, Doc."

Right. Because whatever Danny 'saw', it would be a rumor. Yes. I ignore the way my stomach clenches at this thought. "Good. I don't need Pierce to hate me more." I think the last time I went through the front door of the precinct, she tried to stab me with a pen.

He lifts an eyebrow, quizzically. "Pierce?"

No. There is _no way in hell_ I'm explaining to him that Pierce likes his ass. Or just…him in general. Not. Happening. Ever. "Who are we talking to first?"

"Amber's stepmom."

"Lady Elinor?"

"Bingo. Figured if anyone knew anythin' about what the hell's going on with the Feebs, then it'd be the lady of the house."

"And we're doing…what, exactly?"

"Oh, nothin'," Flack says, and grins. He's smilier this case, I've noticed. As in, majorly smily. Or maybe he was just grouchy last case, or something. Because he's definitely smilier. "Just gonna scare the pants off her, is all."

"I think you mean the petticoats," I correct, and leap out of the elevator before I can hear him laugh. The man is dangerous when he's happy.

Sexily dangerous. But yes. Dangerous.

…damn it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

So I'm (kind of) back, darlings! My classes start tomorrow, but I'm all settled in and (hopefully) things will end up going well. Pray for my mortal soul for my Japanese class, though. Pray for me. Please. (In whatever religious denomination you care to name. I'm partial to Shamash, myself.)

I'm not sure if I'm happy with this chapter...but I thought I should post so y'all know I'm not dead or nothin'.

I love writing Flack, actually. I wrote the opening lines MONTHS ago, and I never thought I'd be able to use them. But this time? Yes. It worked out perfectly. ;)

**Alice Quarantine: **And you DID add a _Firefly _line! ::dance, dance, dance:: Have I mentioned how much I love Simon? I love Simon. Simon/Kaylee FTW. AND I LOVE THAT SONG! Also Hurricane, and Let's Kill Tonight. Both AMAZING songs. Panic! is priceless.

**Dispatchvampire**: Greetings! I'm glad you're still around and enjoying! ;) Surprisingly, now that I'm out of there, I kind of miss Tucson now...well, not the weather or the location or anything, but the people I miss. Some of them. ::sigh::

**yaba:** Flack's POV will crop up more during this case, but I don't know how often his thoughts will appear. The next few chapters should be all Bridget, I'm pretty sure, and we still have to deal with the Minzy/court case debacle as well as Regina and Aiden...things will be picking up in speed soon.

**Pecan Tweet:** Um, so I'm so GLAD YOU LOVED LAST CHAPTER. :D ::hug::


	16. Cleaning Up The Window

**1.16**

I don't like Elinor Parson.

I don't even have to listen to her, really. I have to listen, obviously, but not to her words. I can listen to her voice and her body language and feel just how much she doesn't want to talk to us, and how much she didn't like Jun Takayama.

It's not something she actually says. In fact, she has nothing but good things to say about the boy who was dating her stepdaughter. Or almost dating her stepdaughter. It's just something in her voice when she says his name, or the way her hand shifts to her hip whenever we bring up Amber and Jun, or how her eyes are flat like Graham Lockyer's when Flack asks her about the fashion submissions. There's nothing in them. When he asks if Jun would have won, all she says is, "That wasn't my decision."

Flack dismisses her, and I excuse myself so I can go fume in private. I know that people don't get along sometimes – hell, I think I wrote the damn book on how people can not get along – but that doesn't mean that I like listening to it, ever.

I end up hanging with Adam and talking about the crime scene until we have to leave. He explains _Isatis tinctoria_, too.

"Woad?"

"It's…it's a blue dye. The ancient Celts used to use it as warpaint, but nowadays it's used as indigo dye. Not as often as indigo _itself__, _and it's illegal in some parts of the US, but..." Adam shuffles over to his kit again and digs through it. "It was all over his hands."

"So what are we looking for?"

He shrugs. "Something indigo."

Well, that's helpful.

I don't go back to Jun Takayama's room, and even though I keep spotting Amber out of the corner of my eye, I don't go to talk to her. If I try, she'll run. I know her expression from the way Minzy looked when we brought her back to the Safe House after all the drama. She still hasn't talked to Clare.

I haven't spoken to David since he interrupted me in the middle of my meeting to tell me that next week we're going to court to fight for the Safe House.

I don't bother to stay at the Safe House either. They don't need me tonight, not with Simon on duty. So I change into the only club-worthy thing in my closet – the stereotypical little black dress – tease my hair into something less of a ponytail and more of an awesome-looking bob, and head to the Spotlight.

I met Gina in my freshman year of college, when I took a musical theatre class at CUNY and decided to haunt a few of the Broadway-themed clubs in town, legality be damned. She was one of the class TAs, and taught me way more than the teacher ever did, but I had never been cut out for theatre and we both knew it. That didn't stop her from forcing me into impromptu performances at Macy's and coffee places and anywhere you could name, just because we could. I think one of our performances started a flashmob, actually. When I came back, she'd started her own bar, which was an awesome job for her and the best possible escape for me. Broadway has always been a secret passion, just like my penchant for sci-fi.

Basically, I'm a druggie. Gina's my pusher. Only she pays me rather than the other way around.

"I don't have a job for you," is the first thing she says when I walk in, and I glare at her. The stamp on the back of my hand tingles a little bit. The club is always themed and this week it's _RENT_. It's wildly colorful in here, and there's curvy blonde Grace on stage with her hair frizzing out every which way belting out _La Vie Boheme_. Finch and Alfie are up there too, but it's Grace's big part and they're not gonna take it from her.

"I can't just show up without an ulterior motive?"

"You have a non-ulterior motive option? Turn it on more often, will ya?" Gina puts an arm around my waist and gives me a smacking kiss that would have ended up with us arrested forty years ago. I don't bother pushing her away. Gina greets everyone that way. "We missed you, gal."

"Grace didn't."

"That's because you intimidate Grace." She guides me through the crowd of dancing couples and plonks me at the bar. I don't really care. I'm not gonna get anything other than drunk because of it, but it's clean and it's normal and it's better than having the image of Jun Takayama plastered on the insides of my eyelids. And if I get drunk, I don't have to remember Flack or the fact that I'll have to testify for the continuation of the Safe House, and that what I say might by the beginning of the end for the place that I've come to love so much. "And rightfully so. If you'd give up your job, you'd have one here in a heartbeat."

"I thought you liked Grace."

"Grace is a little bitch." Gina lights a cigarette, slips her lighter back into her pocket, and takes a deep drag. The lights splash over her dark-chocolate skin, like color coating on an M&M. "We need you back, sweetie, and that's the truth."

"Gina, I can't come back, I'm working two jobs now."

"So cut back on one." That's all Gina. She cares more about her agenda than convenience or even rational thought. "You just took one, and you can't work yourself to the bone for others all the time, hon. You need breaks once in a while."

"I like my job, Gina."

"Yeah, right." Wordlessly, she offers me a cigarette. I wave it away. "You work too damn hard and that's the truth."

"So you're offering me more work?"

"I remember you sayin' once that workin' here wasn't work. It was joy." She takes another drag on her cigarette, and blows the smoke on my face. I don't even cough. It's another pure Gina moment. When she claims people, she _claims_ people – a sort of blow smoke all over you, kiss you, touch you, put my scent on you because there's no other way you're getting out of here claiming. The closest thing I can find that compares to being claimed by Gina is being adopted by a very large, very ruthless grizzly bear that can turn into a kitten if you talk to her the right way. Learning to talk to her the right way can take decades. I still haven't quite figured it out. "You need more joy in your life, babe. Or more sex. Either way."

"Oh, that's nice."

"And you know I can always find someone for you to fulfill the second half of that."

"Gee." I scowl at her. "Thanks."

She smirks at me. "Anytime, babe."

I don't bother to respond to that. Gina flirts with everyone, male or female, gay or straight, and basically seduces whoever she finds attractive, no matter what their sex or gender is. I'm fairly certain that half the bar thinks I'm her illicit lesbian lover while she's on an out with Finch, and the other half thinks I'm her toy. I know for a fact that the entirety of my musical theatre class still thinks I'm a lesbian because of Gina. I'm not sure if I'm pissed off at her for it or not, and it's been over six years.

I let out a sigh. There is no one word to describe Gina. Gina simply _is_.

"So what's up with you, delectable?" Gina hands me a glass of something violently blue that smells like raspberries. It's probably highly alcoholic. I take a sip of it anyway. "You practically reek of kicked puppy and cologne. I'd say there's a hell of a lot of crap. Or a guy. Or both."

"None of your damn business if there is." I say, and choke on the sharp bite of the drink. "_Damn_, Gina, what'd you put in this?"

"It's a Windex, babe, it has to be strong." When I look at her cluelessly, she rattles off a couple different names of what I _think_ are vodka, and ignores me. "Anyway, you don't come here if you don't have a gig without a reason. What's up?"

I hesitate. Frown. Debate. Then, finally, I swallow the rest of my Windex, slam the cup back on the counter. "More first."

"Damn, girl, I like the way you think."

I only have two Windexes, including my first one, and a glass of wine, but it's enough to make the room spin pleasantly and things get a hell of a lot happier, if a lot crazier. Gina worms the whole story out of me, everything from the moment Aiden offered me a consultancy gig to Flack walking into my life to the current case (though I don't go into detail on that for obvious reasons). In fact, we spend most of our time talking about Aiden, who Gina met years ago. I'm not certain, but I figured at the time that Aiden and Gina had had a fight. They haven't talked since, and I'm not about to tell Aiden that we ended up discussing her.

"And you have not slept with this man _why_?" Gina says, sipping her wine. I swirl my glass. Up on stage, Finch is singing _Halloween_ as I try to think of an excuse, and it's offering a very weird background. _How could a night so frozen be so scalding hot? How can a morning this mild be so raw? Why are entire years strewn on the cutting room floor of memory when single frames from one magic night forever flicker in close-up on the 3-D IMAX of my mind?_

"Because we work together."

"So?"

"There are rules."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" she snaps. "You are a total asshat. The man is _begging _to be tapped."

"No, he's not." He's interested. I can process that. But I'm a connie – consultant, I correct myself, irritated – and he's a detective and I met Gerrard for a reason. "There are _boundaries_."

"Screw the boundaries, woman. He sounds all kinds of fine." Clearly, I'm frustrating her. She grabs a shot and whacks it back. When the customer who bought it squawks, she purrs and gives him another one, along with a kiss. Clearly, they know each other. I have to stir my drink and wait for her to disengage. "Where was I?"

"You were about to drop the subject."

"Shut up, asshat." She chucks an ice cube at me. I dodge. "Bitch."

"Prick."

"You wish."

"Not really."

"Ugh, shut _up_ with your tightassness." She rubs her temples. "I told you in school and I'm telling you now, you don't need drama and all that crap to get some. You just need to get laid, and sometimes you hang out after and sometimes you don't."

"I don't want a relationship like that, Gina. I'm not programmed that way." In spite of myself, I think of what it would be like to kiss Flack, and feel the back of my neck go hot. The alcohol is making the image _very_ detailed. "I don't start relationships without emotional investment. And I've only known this guy for a month or so. I don't know him well enough to start a relationship, even if I could."

I want to, though. I don't know him well at all. But I want it. I want to. I want him. I want him enough that it scares me, and I don't know what I'm doing. I take another gulp of alcohol and avoid Gina's eye.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything? I sleep with guys I met an hour before. I sleep with women I met five minutes before. Time means nothing. And neither does age," she adds, before I can say anything.

"I'm a year or two older than him, I think." I know. I checked our respective birth years while going to grab some files from Pierce. I know I'm a stalker. I don't really care. "Seriously."

"He's a grown man, Bridget. It's not like this is high school. You're not cradle-robbing. And that's one of your many, many excuses to not start something that you're afraid isn't gonna work."

I play with the cherry in my glass, twisting the stem over and over between my fingers. I can't help it. "I'm not afraid."

"Bull, Carter. Bull that you're not afraid. You're not good at lying, woman." Gina puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so I'm looking her in the eye. "Listen to me, baby, and listen good. Do you like him?"

I want to say no. He's an asshat. He's stubborn. He's frustrating. He doesn't agree with psychology. He's grouchy in the mornings when he hasn't had his coffee. He's...I don't know. He is.

He's savvy. He's smart. He has big hands and he's a million feet taller than me and has dark hair and blue eyes and he's sexy as hell and God, I have it so bad that I don't want to even acknowledge it. He's Flack. He _is_. "Yes."

"Do you want him?"

I flush. "Gina!"

"Easy question, babe."

Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to _say _it. "Would I be drinking so much if I didn't?"

"Noted." She taps my chin once or twice, and grins. "Haven't seen you in a flutter over a guy in years, babe."

"Shut up."

"Nice comeback." When I say nothing, Gina shakes her head. "Look, baby girl, if you like a guy, if you want to be with him, screw the consequences. Stop being so responsible for once. Just take something for once in your life. Okay?"

"Ugh, just…shut up and stop making so much common sense." I should be thinking about the case. But I'm hurting and David's not telling me anything and Minzy is retreating and I haven't heard from Clary and I feel like hell. And Jun Takayama is affecting me. I'm dreaming about haunting eyes and beautiful boys falling onto their own swords and that damn warning cycles through the whole thing. _Curiosity killed the cat_. "God."

"Close, but I'm Gina."

"Shut the hell up."

"Love you too, babe." She steals the remainder of my wine. "Go sing. It's open mic in three minutes, and I know you love _RENT_."

"Will you pay me?"

"Lily has to cut out early tonight." She debates. "Sure. I'll pay you. Leave your crap here, get your ass backstage, change, get everything done."

"Who am I?"

"Whoever you want to be, baby." Gina smiles. "Nail 'em to the floor."

I have a feeling that the _'em_ she's talking about isn't necessarily the crowd.

* * *

><p>I hate mornings after I've been drinking.<p>

I heave myself down to the kitchen table, wrapped tight in my blanket. I've thrown up twice since I woke up, twice more since I stood up, and I don't want to throw up again. The only way to do that is to get some liquid in me, and then drink the rest of the orange juice. I'm the only one who drinks the pulpy kind, and I know there's a half-full carton in the fridge. I should be good to go after that.

I'll feel like hell, though. The bright lights stab at my eyes. I cuddle deeper into my blanket and walk into the kitchen, only to be face to face with Don Flack.

I scream. He jumps. I scream again, and then stumble back, trip over the end of my blanket, and hit the floor as though I've seen a ghost. The whole room spins. My conversation with Gina floods back into my mind, and I can feel the blood filling my face, my neck, my collarbone. I feel like I'm gonna barf again. "_What the hell are you doing here_?"

"Why are you screaming at me?"

"God." I cover my face with my hands, hide in my knees, and rock back and forth. "_No_."

"You okay, Doc?"

"She's hungover," David says from somewhere behind me. He sounds highly amused, considering I shouldn't even be here while hungover. It sets a bad example for the kids. "It's a miracle she's out of bed before noon today."

I peek at him through my fingers and scowl. "Traitor. You asshole."

"Hey, he showed up on his own, don't blame me." Sounding cheerier than he has in days, David whistles, and the sound pierces my ears like a needle. When I wince, he grins at me. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Actually, you're right. I'm not." And, still whistling, he tromps away to go on his morning jog. The door slamming rattles my brain in my skull, and I have to fight the urge to drag myself back up the stairs, foot by torturous foot, into my room again and hiding under my bed for the rest of my life. Flack looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh, but he fails miserably at the smiling. I glare at him through my cuccoon of blanket.

"Go away."

"I brought you your copy of the file," he says, and holds it up as though this is a reason for him to stay.

"Thank you. Go away."

"Have you eaten anything?"

My stomach clenches and lurches at the thought of letting a single Cheerio pass my lips. I don't even bother to tell him no. I just hide my face in my knees again and wait for the headache to go away. It doesn't. Obviously. "God. Why are you _here_?"

"Because you called me in the middle of the night to say you missed the melodious sound of my voice."

I sit up so fast that the world heaves, and I have to suppress a heave of my own. "_What? _I did _what?_"

"I never thought you had such a creative side, Doc."

Oh my God. Oh my _God_. Oh. My. God. "I did _what_?"

He can only keep a straight face for a second before his soft laugh rumbles through the room, and I fight the urge to punch him. "You _asshole_. You son of a bitch! You—"

"Easy, Doc." He sets the file on the table and comes close enough for me to smell his aftershave. Spearmint again. For some reason, it goes a long way to settling my stomach. "Come on. You need to drink something."

"I'm not drinking anything ever again."

"That's nice. There's OJ in the fridge."

"You're not mothering me, Flack. Go away."

"The only way you're gonna get out of here so we can actually work is if you drink a hell of a lot of water, put on some sunglasses, and have as much OJ as you can stand."

"I don't really want a baby Simpson. Thanks."

"Don't be cute."

I grunt. "Can't I have coffee?"

"No." He's about as sympathetic as a dinosaur. "It'll only dehydrate you more. Drink the juice."

"I don't want it."

"You drink it or I make you drink it."

I hide my face again.

"Don't make me cuff you, Doc." He says, and his eyes are twinkling despite the stern look. "Come on. OJ. Water. Hot shower. We have a nerd to interrogate."

"Nerd?"

"Adam has somethin' for us."

He smiles at me, and he looks so amazing, even in my alcohol-fume hangover, that for a second all I want to do is kiss him. And then I remember my talk with Gina, and the word _boundaries _swells in my mouth and bursts, leaving a sour taste worse than the hangover and David's news together, and I look away.

"Great."

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/10/12: Minor edits made.

I suck.

I suck.

I suck I suck I suck.

I'm _so sorry_ that it took this long for me to update, guys. I've barely had enough time to breathe lately, and I feel absolutely horrible that this is all I could give you. No Flack POV this time, I'm afraid, but that's the way it goes when you're writing in between a bunch of essays, _The Tale of Genji_, and so much Japanese homework that you vomit up kanji in your dreams.

There wasn't much plot progression either, at least, not when it comes to the case. Bridget's life is distracting her. Hopefully this will improve soon.

That or it'll all go to hell and she'll have to extract herself, which will be equally fun to write.

Anyway, you guys are all my favorite people in the world for waiting this long and dealing with my absolute suckiness, and I love you to pieces and I'm sorry I can't update faster. Classes are really, really difficult. And I love it. But I hate all the homework. It sucks up time from things I WANT to be doing, like writing this.

If you have any prompts, feel free to shoot me a line. I'd love to write some one-shots for Bridget and Flack. Believe me, their lack of moving forward is driving me up the damn wall.


	17. Little Pink Slip

**1.17**

Adam's news turns out to be nothing of any real consequence; he found a few prints on the mirror he's pieced back together after lugging all of the glass pieces back to the lab, but it's not in the system, and it means we're back at square one again. The knife Danny found in the garbage has no prints, either; whoever used it was wearing gloves. DNA has nothing either. We're back, basically, at square one, and it's seriously starting to piss me off.

David slams back in to the Safe House at almost midnight on the day that he has to go in for the official hearing. Most of the kids have either gone to bed or gone home for the evening, but I don't know how many will come back tomorrow. A cloud has descended over us all, thick and smoky and bringing only silence. I don't know how they learned about it, but they know that the Safe House might be gone soon. Even if the allegations are completely baseless, how can we escape from an accusation as serious as 'cult?'

That word keeps rattling around in my head. _Cult._ We're not a cult, but it still sinks deep into my brain and stains my thoughts. _Cult._ I can't handle it. I know what cults can do. I remember, during that year I went back to Tucson, finding a commune out in the middle of the Sonora; someone had called in an allegation of rape, and we had to go investigate.

There was nothing we could do about it. Everything was legit. Everyone had come there of their own free brainwashed will. There was no evidence of rape; the woman who snuck in a cell phone call never came forward. So we had to turn around and walk away, and I will never, ever forget the look on the faces of the women as I turned my back on them to get back into the squad truck and drive back to the city, five hours away.

I cried the whole damn way back. Miles had to stop at a McDonald's to get me coffee so I wouldn't go into hysterics.

All of a sudden, missing Miles pierces me like a knife through the ribs. I clench my fingers around the lapel of my bathrobe, and take a deep breath, trying to force the feeling back.

David pulls his tie off, runs his hands over his shaved-bald head, and swears softly under his breath. That means more than anything. David never swears like that unless it means something. I curl deeper into the side of the couch, around my coffee mug (hot chocolate this time of night, but still) and clear my throat. "How did it go?"

To his credit, he doesn't even jump. He just looks at me for a moment, lets out a breath, and shakes his head.

"They're moving forward?"

"I don't know how the hell he did it, but Lockyer's lawyer convinced the judge that he might have a case. Not on the cult charges, those are being dropped," he adds, and in spite of myself I relax a little bit.

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Not if it's being replaced by kidnapping, Bridget."

I hiss a swearword. "What? What the _hell—_"

"He thinks that by implying that we forced Minzy off the street and refused to let her out of this house, it'll deem _us _as unfit to take care of the kids."

"But—" I can't help it. I sputter. "Minzy came to us. _Minzy _came to _us_. She wants _us_."

"We're not her parents, Bridge, and we're not her legal guardians either. We're just…we're a stepping stone for most of these kids. And we've known that, all this time." He looks at me with sad, kicked-golden-retriever eyes. "Bridget, Clary's doing the best she can, and she says we have a really good shot of dealing with it, but getting involved in any kind of court proceeding could make it harder for us to get grants."

And we need our grants. I chew my thumbnail. "God damn it."

David pulls his jacket off, slumps into the couch, and rests his head in his hands for a long moment. I rub his back, gingerly. I'm not used to him showing so much emotion. But the Safe House is David's home – he grew up here, took over after beating all the odds and getting a master's in psychology and a Ph.D. in social work, becoming Dr. David Poole without ever losing his earrings or the tattoo of a violin scroll on his shoulder. And now Graham Lockyer might rip it all away from him.

"They offered a settlement, Bridget," he says through his hands. For the first time since this all started, I can feel my heart swell up with something that might be called hope.

"Really?"

"They wanted Minzy back—"

"We can't do that."

"I know that, but let me finish." There's something in his voice that makes my hand fall away from him. I sit up straighter, waiting, and finally David looks at me and I read it in his eyes before he says it.

"Graham Lockyer wanted Minzy back. But his lawyer advised against that, because Minzy's almost eighteen and doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to, according to the unwritten laws of the court. But he said he'll settle for you getting fired from the Safe House."

It's like I'm a puppet and someone's cut my strings. Like I'm skydiving and someone's stolen my parachute. I'm in free fall, my mind is gone, and all I can hear is the rushing of the blood in my ears and my heartbeat pounding faster and faster in my throat. I swallow, and try to hear myself, but there's nothing more than a mumble. Finally, I clear my throat. "Why?"

"He doesn't like you." David's furious. I can read it in every line around his mouth. But he's helpless too. "He doesn't like the way that you said no. Technically you never violated any rule, but the board of directors doesn't see it that way. They're pushing, Bridge. I don't know if I can keep you here."

"But—" It's the only thing I can say. I fall silent after that. I can feel the tears creeping up my throat, and I force them back. "David."

"I know."

"David, this place is my home."

"I know." His voice is rough now. "I know, Bridget. Do you think I want you to leave? You're brilliant at this, you're brilliant with the kids. But if it's a choice between keeping you here and losing the Safe House…I can't make that decision."

I want to vomit. Graham Lockyer. I want to kill Graham Lockyer. I want to strangle him. I want to strangle myself for rising to him, for pushing back instead of keeping a nice receptionist smile on my face and twisting his words and prodding him gently back out the door. But I always have to turn everything into a fight. Something hot slips down my cheek. It's a tear. "What did the board say?"

"They want to keep this place running too." The way I do, I realize, as I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. "Bridget, I'm sorry."

"Don't," I snap. "Don't tell me you're sorry. It's not your fault."

"Bridge—"

"Shut up, David, I need to think."

He falls silent, watching me, as I bury my face in my knees and rock back and forth. I can't help it. It helps me think, it's forcing my hate and my grief into movement and keeps it away for now so I can at least make a semi-rational decision. And I need that right now. I really do.

I came back to New York from Tucson specifically so I could work in the Safe House. I didn't want anything to do with law enforcement after what happened to Miles. I wanted to save someone who could be saved, and I remembered the Safe House and applied to be the night supervisor, and that had been that. This place was what I called home. It wasn't the little adobe building in Tucson where I'd grown up or the dorm where I'd lived with Aiden or the ratty apartment I'd had when I'd first come back. _This place _was my home. Is my home. I'm being forced out of my own home. _Graham Lockyer _is forcing me out of my own home.

The board of directors likes me, but they like the Safe House more, and without me, they can keep the Safe House. I may not want to leave, but if it's the question between me staying and the Safe House vanishing, then I'll go if I have to. Which I'm probably gonna have to. But without the Safe House, what do I have? I have Gina. She told me at the beginning of the week that I always have a job at the Spotlight. But where do I live?

David touches my shoulder, and I shrug him away.

"I need to think," I tell him, and then I go upstairs, step by aching step, so I can cry without him seeing.

I'm a walking robot for the next few days. I can't think. I can barely breathe. I don't even look at what my emotions are doing to me. I do my job, I analyze evidence, I talk with Flack about Jun Takayama, but I don't think about that conversation I had with Gina and I don't think about the fact that within the next week I'm probably going to be moving. Minzy knows something's wrong, but something's snapped between us since she ran off, and she doesn't ask. Simon doesn't either, but I think that's just because he's British and he has the whole stiff-upper-lip thing going on. (He's old-fashioned, too, which contributes.)

I don't get sleep for two days, and I'm running on coffee fumes by the time Friday rolls around and we have to go over what we have.

The lab, for once, is almost dead silent as I sort through the center of a paper explosion. The files have literally expanded over every available surface of the conference room, including the whiteboard, chairs, desk, and coffee bar. There are a few spots on the floor for people to jump across, like stepping stones through a river, but really, that's the only clean spot other than my seat and Flack's chair as he runs his hands through his hair for the seventy _thousandth_ time staring at the tox report.

"What the hell is sodium lauryl sulfate?"

"It's a cleaner." I can't believe I remember that. "It's in Dawn. You know, the dish soap."

"No, I mean—" He leans back and stares at the ceiling. The tie's come off, and it's been off for hours now; he looks more ruffled than I've ever seen him before. "What the hell is it doing in his stomach?"

"Because someone made him drink dishwashing soap?" My voice is caustic. "That's what Hawkes said. Damage to the teeth and trachea indicates something was forced down the throat, probably a bottle of dish soap. Which means the poor bastard was drugged, forced to drink soap, stabbed multiple times, and then pushed over the edge of a seventeen story balcony, all in the middle of the day without anyone realizing what the hell was going on in the next room."

"I know that." He scowls. "I want to know why."

"I don't know, Flack. I wasn't there."

"Don't get grouchy." Flack glances at me. After a moment, he gets up out of his chair and joins me on the floor, pushing some papers aside so he can lie flat. I can only think about the horrors that are creeping into his suit, but I don't bother to tell him. He's on his sixth cup of coffee, it's past midnight, and everyone else has gone home for the night. "It was just a question."

"If you fall asleep there, I'm not gonna wake you up," I tell him, leaning over him to snag a file off the table. It's my copy of the tox screen. "Just FYI."

"Nice. Very nice." He closes his eyes. "I'm dead."

"Good. Does that mean I can keep your tie?" I have a strange fascination with the one tie he's been wearing all day. It's a very pretty dark blue. It'd be an awesome color for a slip dress.

"No."

"Damn."

He pokes my shoulder, somehow aiming perfectly despite the fact that his eyes are closed. "Shut up, Doc. We're working."

"No. We're just killing ourselves. There's nothing _here_." I scruff my hands through my hair, ignoring the way I must look like a witch with my makeup kind of smeared and my hair flying every which way, because I know I've looked worse. "There is _nothing_ here we can use as a lead. All the alibis checked out, there were no fingerprints, no weapon was found—"

"Except the knife."

"But that wasn't Takayama's blood. It was a man's blood, Flack, and even if he was transgender, Jun Takayama was, according to his biology, female."

Flack grunts. I'm fairly certain we've gone over that a few times this evening, but we're both tired. "Forgot."

There's no point in this. I slam the file shut and throw it at the wall, watching the papers slip out and scatter everywhere. I'm gonna regret that in a minute, but for now, I don't particularly care. "God damn that son of a bitch!"

"Watch it, Doc. You're shouting."

"No one cares if I shout, Flack. There's no one _here_." Except us. "Damn it. Just kill me now so I don't have to deal with any of this."

"Aiden'd probably kill me if I killed you, so no dice, Doc."

Damn it. Me being dead would make things so much easier. I seize the nearest file and start paging through it. I've gone over it so many times that my eyes will cross if I read it all again, but I don't care. I need to do something.

Jun Takayama. Tox screen reports an excess of heroin with no evidence of previous drug usage. The amount would have been enough to kill him even if he hadn't been stabbed half a dozen times and chucked over a balcony; it was way past the overdose level. It was also high quality, which means the murderer (if the murderer was the one to inject the heroin) had access to some expensive stuff. If it was Jun Takayama who shot himself up, then that gives us question two: where the hell did he get the drug, and how could he afford it?

Question one being who did it and why, of course.

Question three: What had happened in Jun Takayama's room? There had been no fingerprints anywhere other than his own (and the cleaning lady's, but she'd been so petrified that I wrote her off automatically). It's possible that he went on a rampage and broke everything himself, of course, but at the same time, why pin a threatening note to the wall? No. I'm content to think of the note and the break-in as a single incident, maybe a warning, by someone who had enough hotel access to break in without jimmying the lock. Which basically means someone had Jun Takayama's key. The fact that it might just be a way to throw us off the scent is something else we have to consider, though.

Question four: What the hell is with the knife? None of the con-goers have any sign of an injury anywhere (we checked) and there's no other reason for it to be there. Prints on the handle came back to Jun Takayama, so clearly something went down, but no one's talking. The FBSS is possibly the most closed-mouth group of people I've ever had the misfortune to meet, and when it comes to the Greenbaums…no. Mr. Greenbaum may be flamingly gay with a raging crush on Flack, but I don't think he has murder in him.

And the kicker: the woad. We've found absolutely _nothing _to do with woad in any of the rooms of the con-goers, not even Takayama's, and there wasn't any in the apartment in Lenox Hill, either. So it's possible he stained his hands working on his fashion entry. But there's nothing purple or blue on that, either. The dress was a soft green, the coin-skirt metal, the sash a mix of red and yellow and orange. No woad.

"Damn it." I say again, and pinch the bridge of my nose. "This is insane."

"This is detective work."

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results." I push the file off my lap and watch it hit the floor. "If you look at it that way, we're both total nutjobs. We keep staring at this crap waiting for it to tell us something and all it says is – is crap."

There's more bitterness in my voice than I care to admit, and of course The Human Lie Detector picks up on it. One eye opens, lazily; then he sits up a bit to get a better look at my face. "Doc, you okay?"

"Not really. I hate not being able to figure things out." I grab another file and stare blankly at a page I've already read a dozen times. I don't want to talk to Flack about the Safe House. It's none of his business, first of all, and second of all if I start talking about it, it's all gonna flood out of me – the Safe House, Minzy, Kylar, my conversation with Gina, my panic about finding a new place to live, everything – and I can't handle that right now.

Flack gives me a long look with his X-ray vision, and when I don't say anything more, he sits up and takes the file from me. For a second, he's so close I can smell whatever shampoo he uses, and I have to turn away as fast as possible so I don't lose all control. "You still haven't mentioned what you're thinkin' about all of this, Doc. You've heard what I have to say."

I know that. But I like the sound of his voice. I settle in the tailor position, closing my eyes so I can hear better. "Go over it again for me."

He laughs, but it's only for a second, maybe half of a chuckle, nothing more than that. "Demanding."

I open one eye to glare at him for a moment before settling with my back against the wall. "Waiting."

"Okay, jeez." I hear papers rustling, and a soft sound, and the carpet sags in front of me. Flack's standing, staring at the whiteboard, and I know if I open my eyes I'll have to tilt my head back forever to be able to see his face. He's so damn tall. "The girl Angel—"

"Amber," I correct automatically, even though I know he's just messing it up to annoy me.

"Amber." The sharp scent of whiteboard marker hits the air as he scrawls something on the board. "Amber's out. Not only does she have an alibi for TOD – she was in one of the convention presentations, just like everyone else in the Feebs – she doesn't have a motive that we can figure out."

I think back to what I remember about Amber. Her huge eyes. No constricted pupils. Her arms had been covered, but I'm fairly certain even if I checked, I would find no evidence of heroin addiction. I ask him anyway. "Think she's a user?"

"Nah, didn't strike me as the type."

"Glad we're on the same page."

He snorts, but moves on. "I'd like Elinor Parson for it, but she was in the same panel and there's no way she could've snuck out, she was the presenter."

"Andy Devilliers?"

"Don't start me on Andy Devilliers. The guy's a wuss." Flack lets out a breath, and when I open my eyes, he has his hands clasped behind his neck, staring at the board. "Everybody has alibis, Doc. _Confirmed_ alibis. We're screwed."

I know that. "What do we know about TOD anyway?"

"Maid went through the main lobby at precisely 11:17 and reports nothing around the fountain. She didn't hear anything, either, and it's a straight shot up to the seventeenth floor. She didn't look up, but nothin' would've made her look up anyway." He checks the board. "Body found at 11:31 or right before. We've tracked a call to the media through the main lobby phone. No one was at the front desk because no one was comin' in that day, so far as anyone knew. Main receptionist was takin' a smoke break."

"So he was high on heroin, stabbed half a dozen times, thrown over a balcony railing into the middle of a hotel lobby, and no one saw anything." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "CCTV?"

"None. Cameras broke, remember?" He gives me a sideways look. "Told you that an hour ago, Doc."

"I'm tired." Not sleeping for two – excuse me, _three_ – straight does that to you. I blow a strand of hair out of my face, absently. "Do we have anything else?"

"Wreckage in the hotel room. No prints though. Whoever did it either worked at the hotel or wore gloves, 'n we've checked everyone at the hotel."

"So basically we're at a stalemate."

"Basically." He's watching me. It's like when we were talking in the staff room. I can feel his eyes on my face. "Your turn."

"What?"

"Lay it on me." Oh. My theories. I can't really say I don't have any at this point. The problem is I have too many, and they're crowding in my brain and mixing with everything else that's sour and dark in there. It's not the most pleasant experience.

"Amber was in love with Jun Takayama, doesn't mean she didn't kill him." I pull the pencil out of my hair and roll it between my fingers so I have something to do. "And just because she has an alibi for the stabbing doesn't mean she has an alibi for the heroin, if he didn't do it to himself."

"There was no sign of a struggle."

"He was a teenager. Teenagers sleep late. According to his MySpace, he only bothered to roll out of bed at about noon every day, so if someone wanted to sneak in and sedate him they'd have a chance to do it."

"Amber's a teenage girl, you think she could've held that kid down and sedated him without leaving a mark?"

"I think if someone gave him heroin, they gave it to him orally. Hawkes went all over that body and didn't find any puncture wounds anywhere."

"So, what, in water?"

"Maybe." Pencil lead smears on my fingers. I scrub my hands on my jeans, but when I look at my hands again, it's still there. "And we don't know if the drugging and the stabbing are connected."

"The soap?"

"Cleansing, and tentatively, I'd say that _was _connected to the stabbing and the body dump." I take a breath. "It was meant to be a cleaner. The murderer wanted to cleanse Jun Takayama of something inside him that was bad. Why else make him swallow soap?"

"Because they're sick?"

"Everyone has some sort of sickness, Flack. Just because you're physically healthy doesn't mean you're well. Actually, technically, any sort of stress can be defined as a mental sickness. We all have our own unique mental deviations, which means we're all sick in one way or another."

"To the point of makin' someone swallow lemon-scented Dawn dish soap?"

"Obviously, some of us are a little sicker than others."

Flack grunts a word that sounds distinctly like "_Psychologists_" and draws a crimson red line between the word _stabbing _and the word _soap_. "What else?"

"The room is interesting."

"Interesting? That's it?"

"Until we have more information about Jun Takayama, I can't really speculate on anything more than that."

"Then guess."

I glare at him. "Did you seriously just ask me to guess?"

"So?"

"Scientists don't _guess_, Flack."

All he does is lift an eyebrow, and I remember. Psychology isn't a science. It's common sense. "I'm not gonna guess for you, Flack."

"You have to have some idea."

"Every single reflective surface destroyed? Of course I have ideas. I have millions and millions of ideas."

"About who did it?" he pries, and after a moment I cave. I'm too exhausted to even care.

"The only thing I know is that Takayama _didn't _do it. There would have been evidence on his hands and in his clothes."

"It took twenty minutes from the discovery of the body for the lab to figure out which room was Takayama's and get in," he says. "So…"

"Murderer did it," I respond. "Either the murderer or an accomplice if there was one."

"And the note?"

"A warning. Obviously."

"To us or him?"

"Him, I'd say. If someone was very, very lucky…" I chew the end of the pencil. "Twenty minutes, you said?"

"Closer to fifteen."

"It's just possible that someone broke into Takayama's room without knowing that the boy was even dead. I don't think the warning was left for us, I think it was meant for Takayama. But…but someone killed him before he had a chance to read it."

Flack whistles. "This guy wasn't well-liked, was he?"

That's not really my question – my question is why the hell Amber loved him so much if everyone else hated him – but I keep that one between my teeth as I check the watch on my wrist. "Damn it."

"What?"

"I have to go back." Back to David's guilty looks and Simon's probing questions and the increasingly insistent messages on my answering machine. I swear under my breath again. "What do you think my taxi chances are?"

"Good, but I can—"

"You live in the exact opposite direction. I don't need help getting back."

Pause. "Doc…"

"Don't ask if I'm okay." I snap. "Just don't. All right? I don't want—" _to fall apart. _"—I don't want to talk about it."

Silence for a moment. He takes a deep breath and holds it before turning away to grab some of the papers. "Doc, you've been gettin' tetchy over the past couple days. You scared the crap out of Adam yesterday. You're snappin' at Aiden, swearin' at Messer, sassing Stella – every time I come near you, you nearly bite my nose off. I might not have a fancy degree like you do in keepin' an eye on people, but a blind man'd see something's botherin' you, and judging by the fact that you didn't leave for the Safe House three hours ago when you should've, I'd say it has everything to do with the hearing you're trying really hard _not_ to talk about."

I don't speak, keeping my eyes on a patch of carpet, but he can't even stay out of that. I see his shoes, and then his knees as he crouches down in front of me.

"Dunno if you remember, Doc, but I said I wanted to help if I could. I meant it."

I can't answer him. I literally cannot force the words out my mouth. I clench my fingers around my knees, staring at the space of floor that shouldn't be filled with Don Flack, and swallow, and swallow again. _I know we don't get along very well, Doc, but that doesn't mean I don't wanna help if I can._ Of course I remember that. How could I not remember that? I swallow once, and then again, and again, and finally say, "I remember."

We're both quiet for a second. I don't want to talk about it, but for some reason, the silence isn't awkward. He's not going to push, I realize, and that hurts more than anything because I've been acting like a ass. And he's willing to just take it because he knows something's wrong, but he doesn't want to push at it and make it worse.

I can't help it. I lean forward and rest my head on his shoulder and just breathe. He goes stiff as a board for a long moment, and then, lightly, I feel his fingers brush my hair. My breathing goes shaky, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try very hard not to cry.

"I don't want to talk about it," I say, and my voice is so soft I can barely hear it.

"Okay," he replies, and strokes my hair until I stop shaking.

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/10/12: Minor edits made.

People, I am on a _roll_.

I don't know how long it'll take until my schedule is normal again (hopefully soon) and I can get back to once a week posting, but considering this is the second chapter in I think two or three days, hopefully that's okay.

**yaba:** Oh, thank you. That helps. :) I'm taking four classes and I have about three or four hours of homework every night in addition to everything else I'm doing...I'm participating in fencing club and going to tutoring and trying to have a life and it's not working out very well, but there you go. ;) And I'm glad you like Bridget so much. Though I'm sorry to say her life is disintegrating around her at the moment. Also, I'm not entirely sure, but there _might_ be a Flack POV next chapter. So hang tight.

**Alice Quarantine**: I'm so glad to make you laugh with my insults. :D I found the word 'douchenozzle' in a _Pride and Prejudice_ fanfic which is absolutely hilarious and completely readable, even if you've never read _Pride and Prejudice_. It's called _Sparks Fly, Tires Skid_, and I've tagged the HTML here if anyone's a P&P fan like I am, or just wants an awesome, hilarious read. s/6483376/1/Sparks_Fly_Tires_Skid


	18. Hell Of A Year

**1.18**

She doesn't cry.

That's what strikes him the most intensely about her, he thinks, after he drops her off at the Safe House and she vanishes inside, closing the door softly behind her. She doesn't talk to anyone, and she doesn't cry. He'd seen that her eyes were overbright before she'd closed them, hiding her face, but she hadn't let a single tear past.

He's not sure if that worries him or not.

Flack calls Aiden as soon as he turns the corner, passing Café Latte (which Aiden has raved about) and heading up north towards Canal Street. It's almost the end of October by now, and the red-and-orange leaves from Central Park are flying everywhere in the wind that's been blowing through the city all week long. It's almost eerie to see in the dark, considering it's nearly one in the morning now.

"What the hell, Flack." Aiden's voice is rough and fuzzy at the same time; for an instant, he feels bad. He probably woke her up. "D'you have any _idea_ what time it is?"

"Yeah, do you?"

"Shut up, asshole." It's affectionate, though. "What do you want? I hope to hell this isn't a booty call, mister, because trust me, I'm way outta your league."

"Oh, that's nice."

"Well, you have a seat in the ballpark. Messer's out in the parking lot."

"Hah." Now that she's answered, he can't remember why he called in the first place, either, and for a second he only drums his fingers against the steering wheel. The light turns red, and he settles in to wait. "Sorry for wakin' you up."

He hears a rustle and a click; she probably has him on speakerphone. "Are you still at work?"

"Just left."

"Was Bridge there?" she asks. She's snapping awake now. All of them can do that, wake up in seconds after the phone goes off. The job snaps them out of unconsciousness faster than anything else. "You didn't let her go home on her own, did you?"

"Nah, I dropped her off." _Of course_. He doesn't say it. He doesn't need to piss Aiden off too. "She's at the Safe House."

She must hear something in his voice. "What happened, Flack? Is something wrong?"

He turns the radio on for a few minutes, and then off again when he realizes there're too many thoughts in his brain for him to focus on the music. "She wouldn't tell me."

Aiden's voice goes Antarctic cold. "What. Happened. Flack."

"I don't know what happened. She just…" He smacks the steering wheel once, and then again, harder, when it doesn't vent the frustration that's twisting his whole insides into knots. He shouldn't be this angry and worried, but he is. It's driving him crazy. "She wouldn't talk about it. I asked, Aiden, believe me, I asked, but she didn't say a damn word." She'd just rested her head on his shoulder and struggled to breathe and pretended nothing was wrong. It had scared the hell out of him.

The light turns green, and the taxi behind him has to honk twice before he finally remembers to press the gas petal.

"Aw, hell." There's a snap from the other end, as though someone's opened a door. "You sure?"

"Aiden, I've never seen someone try so damn hard not to cry."

Something crashes. "Son of a _bitch_."

"Aiden?"

"Dropped my shoes."

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Danny texted me, there's a case." Pause. "I'm not wakin' Bridge up in the middle of the night, you crazy? Even though she's probably awake. And don't you dare tell her that you told me she's upset. She'll never forgive you and I don't have a single clue what your game is, chuck, but I know you're never gonna get anywhere with her if she doesn't trust you."

"Aiden, she wouldn't trust me if she had a scimitar in her hand ready to chop off my head."

"You wouldn't be callin' me if that was true, Flack, and you wouldn't be callin' me if you didn't have some sort of long-term plan in mind, so don't BS me."

"She's a consultant, Aid."

"So?"

"Off-limits."

"Screw the limits. You think anyone gives a damn about limits?"

"I do," Flack snaps back. "She does."

"You think _Mac _gives a damn? Mac's who she'll answer to if somethin' happens, and believe me, if he cared as much about relationships as he does cases then he'd work as a soap opera director. Or the manager of a gossip rag."

"You answer to Mac. She answers to Mac. I answer to Gerrard."

Aiden hisses a swearword under her breath. "I need to talk to David."

"Why?"

"Because if something's wrong with Bridge, guaranteed, David'll know what it is. You can't live in the same house as a professionally trained translator of body language and keep secrets, Flack, just doesn't work that way. There's a reason we hire him to train the new detectives about lie detection."

"He stopped doin' that a while ago, Aid."

"Nah, he still moonlights sometimes. Not often, but he does it." A door slams closed on the other end of the phone. "That rat bastard _better_ be there when I get there. If he calls me to complain about me always bein' late, then doesn't bother to show up I'll kill him."

Understandably. He doesn't care much at the moment though. "Aiden—"

"I'll keep you updated," she says. "Well, much as I can. And if it's necessary, I can tell _you_ who to kill."

And for some reason, this goes a long, long way to settling his temper.

* * *

><p>"Doc."<p>

I groan and pull the blanket up over my head. Honestly. Does _everyone _in my life have to start calling me Doc? I'm gonna kill Flack for starting it in the first place. "Go 'way, Aid."

"Do we sound that alike?" Aiden asks.

"Dunno. Do we?"

The other voice is male with Staten Island graffiti all over it. Danny. I peer over the edge of the blanket, glaring at Aiden first. "What's he doing in here?"

"That's nice, Doc," Danny says, half-grinning. "You gonna greet all your saviors that way?"

Aiden seems to have realized her error. She scowls. "Get out, bozo."

"Cold, Burn. That's cold."

"Quit the small talk and get goin', Messer. Now. You're already on my hit list for showing up an hour late."

"Not my fault."

"Which is the only reason I haven't killed you yet this morning, but get out, _now_."

Danny shifts awkwardly, and his eyes flick towards me, serious now. "You okay, Doc?"

Not really. I clear my throat. "Yeah."

Aiden and Danny exchange a look that's about as weighty as a semi truck. Then he vanishes out the door, clattering back downstairs, and Aiden drops onto the end of my bed to just stare at me. "You look like hell, woman."

"Don't tell me. I'll find out when I go to take a shower and I don't want to know until then." I flop back to stare at the ceiling, the way the paint peels in that one corner. I kept meaning to fix up the paint job around this place, but I never had the time. Now it looks like that one chip is going to stay chipped. "What are you doing here this early in the morning?"

"First of all, it's only seven and you usually get up this early anyway so don't bitch."

"Getting up on my own is totally different than someone else waking me up."

She ignores me. "Second of all, this is the first time in days that I've talked to you and you haven't snapped my head off, and from the look of David's hangdog face downstairs, it has everything to do with this place." Aiden raises an eyebrow. "Now we have two options. One, you tell me what the hell is goin' on. Or two, I beat the crap out of you until you tell me what's goin' on. Your choice, Bridge."

Oh, God. This is _not _what I wanted to deal with this early in the morning. "Aiden—"

"You tell me the truth, woman. Now. Or I walk out that door, and you don't see me again until you have the guts to apologize for acting like an ass and tell me _what the hell is going on with you_."

"Aiden, this isn't the best—"

"I don't give a damn whether it's the best time or not. You're telling me."

"Shut up for a second, okay?" I snap, and crawl out of bed. "I can't talk to you about it here. Okay? We have to go somewhere."

She grabs my arm and swings me around. "Why can't we talk about it here?"

"Bridget, where's the—oh."

It's Charlie, paused in my doorway. His eyes are wide as golf balls as I wrench my wrist out of Aiden's grip and pull my robe on, careful not to look her in the eye. "It's okay, Charlie. What was your question?"

"Cereal." He keeps a wary eye on Aiden, and I can't remember if they've met or not. I don't think they have. Aiden's badge is gleaming on her hip, and even though Charlie adores Stella and tolerates Flack, he doesn't like cops. "Where's the cereal?"

Danny's downstairs. I chew the inside of my cheek for a second. "You wanna go out and get breakfast with me in a little bit, instead? It's kind of…busy downstairs right now."

"Where?"

Where _are _we going? "How about that twenty-four hour breakfast place? What's it called, Round The Clock? I'll buy. And if you wanna go ask Minzy, I'm sure she'd love to go too. Gimme an hour, though, I have to talk to Aiden about some...girl stuff."

He nods, and bolts. I hear the door to his room slam open and closed again, and wince at the marks it must be leaving on the wallpaper before glaring at Aiden. "That's why."

She's exceptionally meek – for once – as she turns her back so I can dress.

Danny sticks around at the Safe House to help with some of the heavy lifting (since we're trying to transfer all our paper files into computer documents, in order to get rid of the clutter, we have boxes and boxes of files that need to be taken to the professional shredding company that we use in Loisaida), which means most of the kids are sticking to the street corners outside of the Safe House until he leaves. Well, except for one. It takes me about twenty minutes to detach the flirty whore Francesca from Danny's side and send her to Central Park with Simon and the others, but once that's finished, Aiden and I go for a walk.

"I have to resign from the Safe House," I say finally, once we're a few blocks away and I know no one can hear us. Aiden sucks in a breath, but says nothing. "Lockyer is pushing. If we want to keep out of a lawsuit, which we have to, then I have to resign. Minzy's not going back to him, but he's not gonna let go of that either. So basically, Minzy has to vanish again, and I have to leave. That's it. And I don't really want to talk about it, because it feels like hell, but I just have to find a new place to live and somewhere to work and it sucks."

Aiden just looks at me for a moment.

"I can't help it, either," I add. "If I don't leave, then the Safe House will probably end up closed. There's no way we're going to be able to get any real grants to keep it going if Graham Lockyer carries through on his lawsuit. The negative press will be too much. We don't get a lot anyway, so if we lose what we have…we can't afford that, Aid."

"I know."

"And I talked to Gina and she's willing to let me come back to the Spotlight if I have to. Plus the consulting gig…I should be able to find an apartment somewhere." Hopefully. Apartment hunting is awful, especially in the city. "So…so I'll make it work. You don't have to worry about me."

She's quiet for a very long time as we walk down the sidewalk. Yellow cabs flash by like bumblebees. The traffic is surprisingly good, considering the time of morning; usually this is the middle of rush hour. A unicyclist nearly knocks us both over halfway down the block, and we stop so I can give one of the musicians on the corner a dollar that I scrounge out of change in my pocket. (He swears at me for not giving him more.) It's not until we turn around to go back that she clears her throat and says, "Regina was raped."

It's like she's turned around and punched me in the gut. I suck in a breath of air as a dull pain spreads through my stomach; blood lingers on my tongue. I've bitten my cheek too hard. "_What_?"

"A couple months ago. She's gonna testify against the bastard in December, but she's broken, Bridge." Aiden scuffs her shoe along the pavement without looking at me. "I don't know how to deal with her any longer. She's different."

"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"I told her about your job with the PD. She wants to talk to you. I don't know why. I think she wants…I think she just wants a friend. That's why she demanded me when the unis were processing her case. She…she's feeling really alone right now. And you're really alone right now. And – I don't know." She rakes a hand through her hair. "Damn, this year sucks."

I can't help it. I laugh, but only for a second. Then I hug her, and she sinks into it. For the first time I realize she's shaking.

"You can stay with me." She says. "Until you find an apartment. I'm never there anyway, 'cause I'm workin' all the time."

"I didn't tell you about it just to make you—"

"I know you didn't. But I can't help Reggie. And I can help you." She looks at me, beseeching. "Please let me help you, Bridge."

She's so desperate that if I tell her no, she'll probably kill me. Still, I have to take a deep breath and force myself to say yes.

* * *

><p>Aiden texts him later. It's just a single sentence, only two words, but it makes the rest of his day a hell of a lot better than he thought it was gonna be.<p>

_She's okay._

"You're sure?" he asks, once he hits the redial button, and Aiden snorts.

"Stupid. I'm looking at her right now through the window of a café. She's had a hell of a week from the sound of it, but she's fine. So quit worrying, you lunkhead."

He snorts at the nickname. "You're never lettin' that one go, are you?"

"Hell no." Aiden hums a few bars of a song he almost recognizes, and then says, "You really like her, don't you?"

Flack tightens his grip on the files in his hand, wondering precisely how to answer that question. He has no doubt that Aiden will kick his ass if he says so much as half a word in the wrong way. Finally, he clears his throat. "She's drivin' me up the wall with this psychology kick, Burn."

"Well, you're driving her up the wall with your…um, hold on." There's mumbled voices on the other end of the phone, but he can't hear any specifics. Then Aiden clicks back on. "With your supreme thick-headed asshattery. But with her, that's a good thing. So there you go." Her voice chills. "You hurt her, I de-ball you."

She hangs up before he can say a single word.

* * *

><p>Getting up the courage to join Flack in his booth at Sullivan's is literally one of the hardest things I have ever done.<p>

It's not just because this is a cop bar and I feel like an idiot for showing up in the first place, even if I'm technically one of them (though I don't wear the tacky uniform). Nor is it because this might be the first time I've seen him outside of work and it's scaring the hell out of me.

No.

It's the fact that Aiden is sitting there nudging me into doing it.

"Look, we were all worried about you, okay?" She leans back in her seat, lifting her eyebrows at me. It's a Saturday, and we're both in T-shirts and jeans; her hair is still wet from the shower. It took the whole of four hours to get all my stuff packed and taken over to Aiden's apartment, not just because I don't own a whole lot of stuff (I threw a lot of it out when I moved from Tucson to the city for the second time) but because we guilted Danny and David into helping. Well, I think Aiden blackmailed Danny into helping. That, or he just enjoys showing off in front of her. I still don't quite have a handle on what exactly their relationship is, though I'm pretty sure if I ask Aiden whether or not she's slept with him, she'd choke on her beer. Or break my thumb. Possibly both. "And he's been acting kinda weird for a couple days now."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Are you completely insensitive? God. For a woman who spent her whole college career studying the different facets of the human mind and the drives that power it, you sure as hell don't know when a guy is into you."

My ears flare with heat. "Don't quote my textbooks at me. That's freakish that you can still even _remember_ that, Aiden Rose."

"And you're avoiding me, _Bridget Lea_, so just answer the damn question."

"Don't use my middle name at me."

"Don't use _my _middle name at me, woman."

"Snot."

"Bitch."

"Prat."

"Stop using your poached Britishisms and answer the damn question." Aiden leans forward. "Do you, or do you not, have Flack to thank for getting you to open up to me about what the hell's been going on with you?"

I sip my drink rather than answer, and Aiden stomps on my foot. She literally slams her boot down over my toes, hard enough to make me screech and a couple of the just off-duty unis turn around with their hands going to their hips automatically. "_What the hell was that for_!"

"Stop being an idiot and go tell him thank you, or I will literally tear all that pretty hair of yours out of your head."

Either all my friends have somehow crafted a plot to get me to talk to Flack (or into his pants, I'm not quite sure which one yet, considering Gina's probable involvement) or Aiden's just sick of me being single. Though…I can't remember a time before now when Aiden was unhappy with me being single. "That's why you dragged me to Sullivan's, isn't it?"

"No." She debates. "Well, partly."

"Damn it, Aiden!"

"Shut up. If you don't get up right now, go and tell him thank you, and have at least one drink with him, I'm not giving you the key to get back into the apartment."

"That's blackmail."

"If I didn't blackmail you, would you be getting up? No. So get ready to sleep in the park."

I slide out of the booth and glare at her. "I hate you."

"I love you too, Bridget."

I just flip her off before turning away.

I've always hated this feeling. I hated it in Tucson when my ex-best friend Aimee decided to throw me at every guy she didn't want in high school, and basically forced me to go talk to them so she could make out with the quarterbacks. I hated this feeling in college, when I met Aiden and Reggie and Gina, and we all went guy hunting. (Or, they went guy hunting, and I tagged along for the ride.) There's just something about walking up to someone you may know (or may not know) and interrupting whatever they're doing just to tell them you like their shirt or _whatever_ that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Which is probably why my number of one-night stands is at a ripe old age of two (both in Tucson during the crazy summer before I went to college, when I really, really hated my parents and wanted to get back at them for too much crap to think about), and Gina's are in the dozens. (I don't want to think about how many Aiden has had, because, um, ew.) And even though logically I know that what I'm doing right now is nothing like that – well, almost nothing like that – I literally have to go one step at a time across the room before I make it to Flack's booth and clear my throat.

He looks up from the file, and to my shock his eyes widen a little bit. "Carter."

"Yeah." It's not Doc. Maybe it's because technically, this isn't work and technically, he doesn't have to go by my title. "Um…" Deep breath, woman. "Can I sit down for a second?"

He just stares at me for a second, and I feel my face go pink. Damn it. "I don't mean to interrupt. If you're doing something—"

"Shut up and sit down, Doc." Flack closes the file. It's Jun Takayama's autopsy report. "I'm pretty sure I can parrot this thing by heart anyway, so you're not interruptin' anything."

I take the seat, and without preamble, I make myself say it. "Thank you. For Wednesday. It…it helped."

I can't see his face; he's leaning to the side, staring into his bag, searching for something. It makes things a little easier. I don't have to look him in the eye, which I've always been exceptionally bad it. I don't know if it's the color or the way he can see right through you or both – probably both – but meeting his gaze? No. Not happening right now. "I…I wanted to tell you that."

"What was goin' on? If you don't mind me asking."

"The Safe House had to fire me." Every time I say it, it stings a little less, but it's still like I've just been stabbed. "Because of the whole drama with Lockyer."

He sits up so fast I hear his knees smack the underside of the table. "_What_?"

"They had to—"

"No, I heard you the first time, but _what_?" He rubs his kneecap, swearing under his breath, and then catches my gaze. Scratch the X-ray thing – what I hate about meeting his eyes is how I can never look away afterwards. "Doc, you okay?"

"I'm fine." Well, kind of. "I'm just…I'm going to miss working with all those kids, that's all. It sounds really trite and crap, but…but that job meant something to me. And I can't do it any longer. I can't even volunteer for a while. I just need to stay the hell away from the Safe House until this all blows over, and even then I might not be able to go back." I clench my fists, ignoring the way my nails are digging into my palms. "If Charlie gets lost because of that son of a bitch Lockyer, I'm gonna take him down for it. I don't care what it does to me. He does _not_ get to mess with my kids and live to tell about it."

"What about Minzy?"

"I…dunno. Minzy hasn't really been talking to me much." Judging by the way she left the room when David broke the news I was leaving, she's not doing well right now. "It's her stepdad that's the problem. We're not blaming her for it, but she might be blaming herself."

And I'm going on a total tangent. I take a breath. "Anyway, I just had a lot of crap going on when I had my freak-out and I wanted to apologize for acting like an idiot and say thank you. So…"

"You don't have to apologize for something like that, Doc."

I hesitate, clenching my fingers tight into a fist on the table. "I still have to say thank you."

Is it my imagination, or does he soften just the slightest bit at that one? "You're welcome, Doc."

I should be getting up now. I really should be forcing myself out of the booth and heading back over to Aiden to snap at her that I've done her damn assignment and we should just go the hell home already because I'm exhausted. But I can't get up, and I'm not sure if it's because of his eyes or the fact that he suddenly seems just a bit gentler all of a sudden or the fact that I just don't want to leave, because no matter how many times I keep reminding myself that he is Completely Off Limits, my reasoning flies out the window every time I look him in the eye.

"If you want help beating the crap out of him, I'm pretty sure most of us would love to help." The look on his face says _let me know first_, and it's more than a little satisfying to picture Flack squaring down with Graham Lockyer. The cavewoman part of my brain is very pleased with this picture.

"If it comes down to that, you're more than welcome, but I'm the one who gets to break his kneecaps."

He barks out a laugh. "Fine by me."

Okay. Out. _Now_. I cough, and hide behind my hair, and start to slide out of the booth, but I've only moved an inch or two when he clears his throat and says, "If you're lyin' to me about how you're doin', Doc, I'm not gonna be happy."

"Huh?"

For some reason, he's awkward now, rubbing the back of his neck in that little tell that always makes me want to smile, just the slightest bit. "Just…you're my partner. And I know y'don't like me very much. But I want you to know, you can trust me. If you need to."

I can't help it. I sit back down, and look right in his face, and say, "I don't hate you, Flack. And you don't need to keep telling me I can trust you, because I already do."

It takes him a second to process it through the general clamor of Sullivan's, but when he does, his response is automatic. Before I realize it, his hand turns palm up on the tabletop, and he's clasped our fingers together. His fingers are warm and dry and just the slightest bit rough, and it's a shock to my whole nervous system. I stare at him for a second, and clear my throat, surprised at the sudden rush of pressure behind my eyes. God damn it, I am _not _going to cry. I haven't cried in years.

I squeeze his fingers as hard as I can, instead. Flack squeezes just as hard back, with a sort of half-smile that I've never seen on him before.

"Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome."

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

6/10/12: Small edits.

Awwww, fluff. We loves it.

**Alice Quarantine:** Well, after you recommended it to me, of _course _I had to include it, silly. I love P!ATD. :D (And, I see your asshat and raise you to an assclown.)

**yaba: **This case is taking a long time to develop, partly because of the lack of leads and partly because there's too much going on in the non-case spectrum to really get to it often. Now that some of the drama has been resolved, though...mwahaha.

**CSIGetteBlue:** Everyone, you have this wonderful reviewer for getting this next chapter up so early, so send them love! :D

And to all of the **chibi shadow readers** who lurk on the edges of my vision...I love you all too.


	19. Luck of the Draw

**WARNING: Transphobia below. No slurs, but some cruel words and some bigoted people. If you'd rather not read it, skip over the latter part of Sydney's interview right down to the next line-cut.**

* * *

><p><strong>1.19<strong>

It takes six weeks before we get a break in the case.

Six very long weeks of working at the Spotlight. I text Flack every day, and then every other day, and eventually just whenever I remember, only a single word: _Anything?_ Sometimes he texts me back and sometimes he calls, but the answer is always the same. _Nothing._ I take a copy of the folder back with me to Aiden's apartment. I'm fairly certain she's not happy with me taking over her workroom whiteboard, but there's no place else that's big enough for me to write out all the connections between all the people we've interviewed _and _detail what we know about Jun Takayama's life.

I go over the evidence until my eyes roll in my head, come up with so many different theories that I know I'm reaching too far, but I can't think of what else to do.

The Takayamas finally show up in the middle of November to visit Jun's grave, and tell us exactly nothing. They hadn't spoken to him – his original name was Takako, apparently – since he ran away. They hadn't wished to. They're not glad he's dead, but they're not happy with his life choices either. His father had thrown him out of the house for coming out as a man, instead of the girl they'd always raised as a daughter. I stay in the observation room for the interview, and it's a good thing I do, because they remind me too much of people I know. The father reminds me too much of Graham Lockyer.

I meet with Regina and talk to her. She doesn't mention the rape. I don't bring it up. But we have coffee once a week; she comes over to Aiden's on the weekends, and sometimes we watch movies. She's fragile. Breaking. It looks like someone blowing on her will shatter her soul. It'll take a long time before she's strong enough to stand on her own again. I can't imagine what testifying will do to her.

It's almost the middle of December – almost time for the trial of D.J. Pratt – when my phone rings on my way back from the Spotlight, and Flack's name is beeping at me from the screen of my new phone. My heart leaps up into my throat, and I clear my new destination with the cabbie before I pick up. "The station, right?"

"Did Aiden already tell you?"

"No, but why else would you be calling me this late?" Unless, of course, he's drunk-dialing me. _Oh, God, I hope he's not drunk-dialing me_. "What happened?"

"Just…how soon can you be here?"

"Give me twenty minutes," I say, and hope very much that no one will mistake me for a nightwalker in my club dress. I wrap my jacket tighter around my chest, and silently seethe at my high heels and fishnet stockings all the way back to the station.

I have to pretend I don't notice Flack's double-take when I walk in with my nails coated in black and my makeup all smudgy; I don't think he's seen me in my Spotlight uniform, ever, and somehow it's worse than when he came in and I was wrapped up in a blanket moaning over a hangover, because he can actually _see _me. "What is it?"

"You clean up nice, Doc," Danny says, passing by with some folders in his hands, and I scowl at him.

"Eyes to yourself, Messer. What's going on, Flack?"

"There's someone in the interview room I thought you'd want to see," he says, and his voice is level as ever. Thankfully. Because I can feel his eyes on me. It's uncomfortable. "Come on, before Gerrard sees you."

"He's still here? It's two in the morning."

"A police officer was shot two weeks ago, of course he's still up. He's trying to deal with the press." His hand brushes over my shoulder, automatically, and I can't help the way the hair stands up on the back of my neck. "Interview room four."

It's chilly in the back room, and I rub my arms fiercely, trying to get the blood flowing again. For a second, I don't recognize the woman sitting at the desk inside the interview room; then I remember her. Elinor Parson, Amber's stepmother, the woman I didn't like, one of the many who didn't like Jun Takayama. I cross my arms over my chest and glance at Flack. "I thought we interviewed her already."

"We did," Flack replies. "Twice. _She _came to _us _this time. Thought you might want to hear what she has to say. You want to come in?"

"Like this?" I lift my eyebrows at him. "No. I'm supposed to look like a professional consultant, not a hooker."

Flack laughs, loud and sharp, and before I realize it he's slung an arm around my neck and pulled me close into a quick, rough hug. He leaves the observation room before I even fully process it. It feels like someone's broken a hot egg on my skull; the blood rushes into my face and I have to pinch the inside of my wrist. Hard. _Let it go, Bridge. Let. It. Go._ By the time Flack has slammed into the interview room instead, his laughter is gone, and there's his serious face, the one that makes dirtbags nervous. Elinor Parson looks up at him through narrowed eyes, her half-moon glasses glinting in the florescent lighting.

"It's a bit late for a friendly visit, don't you think?" Flack says, and drops down into the chair opposite the Queen Bee of the FBSS. "How're tricks, Lady Elinor?"

"Don't call me that."

"It's what you call yourself, isn't it? Could've sworn it was on your business card."

She twists her fingers in her lap, and stays quiet for a long moment. Something's shifted in Elinor Parson since the last time we saw her; I'm not quite sure what it is, only that she's suddenly more vulnerable, more human. It might be the absence of the corset and the bug-eye goggles, but it's more than that. I'm certain of it. I cross my arms tight over my chest and keep watching as Flack says, "So why drop by so late, Lady Elinor? Remember somethin' about Jun Takayama?"

She flinches. Her fingers tighten into fists. "Yes."

"Really."

"It – it may be nothing. But…" She takes a breath. "Jun Takayama was seeing someone."

"Amber. Your stepdaughter. Yes, we know."

"Amber." Elinor scoffs, and for an instant the icy woman from the hotel re-emerges. "He was playing with my stepdaughter, Detective, not actively pursuing her, the way a boy will play with a girl who's fond of him."

This is news to us. Though…then again, Amber had only ever mentioned one date, and _never _mentioned another girl. It's possible that Amber didn't even know. Flack clears his throat. "Really. Does this girlfriend have a name?"

"Sydney Hardwoode." The name rings a bell; I have a vague recollection of a college coed in a short skirt, crimson lipstick, and a tight black corset, whispering with a few of the other convention-goers. Other than that, I can't see her at all. It's been too long. "I walked in on them in the fashion room, a day or two before the convention opened. I didn't think it relevant at the time, but these past weeks…it's changed my mind. And I can tell you, Detective, that Sydney has no alibi."

Flack leans back in his chair. "How do you figure that?"

"I was thinking about that day. I've gone over all of it in my mind, and it…it made me remember. I would have called the police earlier, but I thought it might have…not worked out. So I didn't." She hesitates. "I've checked the sign-in sheets for every single panel, Detective, and Sydney's name appears on none of them. But I know she was at the hotel. I remember seeing her at breakfast. Now, I've asked around a little bit, and no one remembers seeing her at any of the panels. And—"

She bites her tongue, but it's enough. Flack straightens. "And what, Mrs. Parson?"

She takes a deep breath. Another. Her hands clench together on the table. Finally, she spits it out, all in one breath, like she can't say it unless she says it fast. "And she's a heroin addict."

Flack makes small talk with Elinor for another half-an-hour, but that's it for me. By the time he finally wraps up, I've claimed one of the empty case rooms, where I've mapped everything out from memory. God knows I've stared at my own map long enough to remember every single damn word of it. Dry erase marker smell is thick in the air when he opens the door, and lifts an eyebrow at me.

"Brain spark, Doc?"

"Don't call me Doc." I don't even know why I ask anymore. He's not going to. I should know that by now. I sketch a long line between Jun Takayama and Sydney Hardwoode, in dark green ink, and scrawl _in a relationship_ on the top. "Well, that explains some things."

"We hope it explains some things," he corrects. He's right. It might explain some things. Then again, Elinor Parson could just be lying again. I won't put it past her. Still, it's more of a lead than we've had in weeks, and I want to run with it. I grin at him.

"We hope. But it feels right to me. Doesn't it?"

"It feels like Elinor Parson trying to feed us a line to keep us from focusin' on her stepdaughter." He shrugs, but his mouth quirks a bit. "Nice seein' you excited though."

"If we can eliminate the person who gave Takayama heroin, then maybe we can figure out the rest." I cap the marker. "If this girl, Sydney, if _she's _the one who poisoned Takayama with all that heroin, then maybe she saw someone going into his room. It's a lead, Flack, you know it is!"

"No matter what it is, we're not goin' after it now." He takes the marker from me and puts it back at the whiteboard. "It's nearly three in the mornin', Doc, and you smell like cigarettes. I've been here since five AM. I'm goin' home to crash for a couple hours before _anything_ happens with this. We'll station a uni at Sydney Hardwoode's brownstone so she doesn't run off in the middle of the night, but for now, sleep is necessary."

I can feel myself deflate a little bit. But he's talking common sense. I'm not exactly going to strike terror into the heart of a drug addict if I'm in a slip dress. And Flack's been running on fumes for a few days now. I nod, and squeeze his elbow affectionately before catching a cab back to Aiden's loft and falling into bed.

* * *

><p>Living with Aiden again is a mixture of old memories and new tactics. Aiden had been my roommate since the second half of her freshman year and my junior year at CUNY (taking an associate's at the community college in Tucson had boosted me up a few years on my bachelor's), and in a lot of ways, I'm used to some of her weird quirks. I never touch her orange juice, remind her to pick up her keys, and make sure that the lights are turned off after she goes to sleep, because she has the tendency to pass out without thinking about it. She probably has a ridiculously high electric bill by now.<p>

There are other things I have to relearn too, especially with some of her new habits. The biggest one is the trashy romance novels littering the side tables; she always looks embarrassed when she picks them up, so I don't mention them to her face or to anyone else. Everyone has their own strategies of dealing with the job, after all. Plus, I'm sure dealing with my obsessive compulsive organization of the cabinets and my need to get up obnoxiously early in order to go for a run has pissed her off enough already.

I've slept maybe two hours by the time my alarm goes off at seven, and I drag myself out of bed to go jogging around the block. It's torture, but it's the only way I'll stay awake It's freezing outside, close to the first snow of the year, and the headphones over my ears only keep out so much of the cold; by the time I get back, though, my head's clear, and I can shower and get the cigarette smoke out of my hair.

Aiden has a pot of coffee waiting at the kitchen bar when I get out, fully dressed and rubbing my hair dry with a towel. Her eyes flick down to my feet; I'm wearing my boots again. "Flack called you, then?"

"Yeah, at about three in the morning." I wipe the suds out of my ear and make a beeline for the coffee pot. "Good morning, by the way."

"Mm." She's not a morning person. Aiden sips her coffee. "I'm on duty today."

"You think you'll come back here to sleep?"

"Maybe." Which is code for _probably not_. Aiden runs herself harder than I do, and that's the truth. Except for the mornings, we barely even see each other. "How about you?"

"Probably." I'm a consultant. Even if I don't let myself go back home early, I could if I wanted to. At least, that's the theory. I'm only supposed to be working a few hours a week anyway, according to the terms of my contract. It's just Mac being nice and ignoring how often I clock in. "Did you talk to Reggie yesterday?"

"No. She had a meeting with her attorney and said she'd try to come over today, maybe around five-ish." Aiden's hands clench tight around her mug, and she stirs the coffee absently, making strange patterns in the creamer. "She's nervous, since they let the guy go free until the trial. The hearing was bad enough, I don't wanna think what it'll be like at the actual trial."

"You'll be there, won't you? That should help." Still, if I know Regina at all – this new Regina, not the old, spunky, sparkling Reggie from CUNY – she might be too nervous to press charges at all. It's clear Aiden's thinking the same thing, from the way she's glaring at the bananas. "And I'll go with her, if she wants me to. Two of us will be better than none."

"Yeah." She sounds doubtful. Aiden stands, and pours her coffee into her takeaway thermos, adding a few more dollops from the pot to top it up. "We'll talk to her about it today, probably, if she shows up."

Back by five. I embed it in my memory, give her a hug before she can push me away, and head back down to the whiteboard to go over the facts of the case.

I meet Flack in front of Sydney Hardwoode's brownstone, an apartment a few blocks away from the hotel and the only reason why we hadn't seen Sydney Hardwoode's name on the list of hotel guests attending the convention. With home so close, and the hotel so expensive, there had been no reason for Sydney Hardwoode to spend the money she could better use on heroin on a better standard of living.

It's nearly Christmas break, but for now it's finals, and when she opens the door, Sydney's already in full study-mode. Her long straight hair is strikingly blonde, almost the same color of corn, and she's quite beautiful, high cheekbones, plush lips, the works. She glances first at Flack, then at me, and then Flack again, drumming her fingers against the door frame. "Can I help you?"

She's English. That's something that Elinor Parson neglected to mention. She doesn't sound like Simon, though. Her vowels are crisper, her words clearer. There's something socioeconomic here, and I have the feeling that Simon's on the lower end of the Londoner spectrum where that's concerned.

"Miss Hardwoode?" When she nods a yes, Flack flashes the badge. "I'm Detective Flack from the NYPD. We're investigating some leads in the murder of Jun Takayama. Can we come in and ask you a few questions, please?"

She stares at us for a moment, and her eyes go wide. Then she wipes her palms on her shorts and says, "Sure. Of course. Um…"

Her apartment is an explosion of papers and textbooks. Every surface is covered; there are groceries still lying in bags on the kitchen counter, though, by some mercy, there's no ice cream that's been left out to melt. She clears off a few spaces on the couch, shoveling the papers onto the coffee table, and as she babbles something about putting tea on, we get the chance to glance around. It's an expensive apartment for a college student, hardwood floors and elegant furnishings. Either way, there's no drug paraphernalia that I can see, not yet, and her short sleeves showed off no track marks or needle pricks. She just looks like a studious college student.

There's a scar on the back of her neck, barely visible under her high ponytail. When she comes back with the tea, she settles anxiously into her armchair, drawing her knees up to her chest like a child. "You said…you have some new leads?"

"That's actually what we came to talk to you about." Flack ignores the tea. "Just a few follow-up questions."

"Oh." She pinches her toes together, not looking at either of us, but there's a sheen of sweat on her upper lip that she can't quite hide. "I didn't know Jun all that well. I was just…I came to see the fashion show, play around. You know, what you usually do at a con."

"You've been to other steampunk conventions?"

"A few." She lifts one shoulder. "I used to live out in Seattle, with my mum; there was loads of it up there. I came over here for school, and I joined the Five-Boroughs because it…it just seemed like a bit of a lark."

"You live in Seattle?"

"I'm an American citizen. My father lives in London. I moved back to the States when I was seventeen." Sydney frowns a bit. "Is this relevant?"

"Just gettin' a bit of background." He's being surprisingly polite. I suppose putting her on her guard, especially so long after a break in the case, wouldn't be the best idea anyway. "Would you mind goin' over everything for us, Miss Hardwoode?"

"Everything?"

"What you did that day, that sort of thing." When she hesitates, he adds, "It could help us nail down a few things we've been worrying about."

"Oh." Her eyes flicker to me. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

"Bridget Carter." I lean forward and shake her hand. It's damp and clammy, the hand of a nervous, trembly girl. "I'm a psychologist with the NYPD."

"Are you here to psychoanalyze me?"

I smile at her, bright as I can. "Nah. I'm just here on a favor. Pretend I'm not even here."

She doesn't believe me, and we can all see it. Still, she turns back to Flack. "I'm well within my rights to call a lawyer for this, correct?"

"Yes." He doesn't want to say it. "Like I said, it's just a few follow-up questions. Nothin' to be worried about."

She doesn't believe him, either. Sydney Hardwoode leans back in her chair, and then settles, like a contented cat. She doesn't pull out her cell phone. It's only then that I notice that the textbooks lying wide open on the table and scattered across the floor are all law books. She's a law student. That's an interesting twist. After a moment, she says, "Go ahead."

I tune out the conversation, and let my eyes drift. It _is _an expensive apartment. Flatscreen TV, stereo, pricey laptop, even an espresso machine on the kitchen counter, all of it screams spoiled rich girl. Even the high heels tossed aside into the corner probably cost more than the rent I'm splitting with Aiden. At least one of her parents must be loaded; there's no way a law student would be able to afford everything in here otherwise. That, or she has a more interesting way of getting a hold of money. Drugs, maybe. If she's not an addict, then she might be a dealer, and a swanky brownstone would be just the place to keep that sort of lifestyle hidden from the cops.

There aren't any posters or anything that looks like it belongs to her (that is, other than the texbtooks) out in the main room. It looks like an apartment that belongs to a much older person, with very selective taste. After all, she doesn't strike me as the landscape painting type. It also means she's smart enough not to keep anything in plain sight, and if she _is _a heroin addict, as claimed by Milady Elinor, she's probably hidden it somewhere no one but her would think to look.

Which is strikingly unhelpful.

"—the literature panel, I think." She twists a strand of hair around her finger, thoughtfully. "I remember talking about a new rewrite of _Dracula_ in clockwork London, so…yes, I'm certain it was the literature panel. And then I came out and the ground floor was crawling with the police and I wasn't sure _what _happened until Amber Parson looked over the ledge and threw up into the nearest potted plant."

Considering Elinor mentioned she hadn't gone to any of the panels, that's a bit of an intimate detail. I look at Flack for a second, and then ask, "Is there anyone who can confirm you were in the panel?"

"A couple people, I suppose. Amber maybe? I sat behind her, so it's possible she didn't notice me. Besides, I came in late, so I didn't get the chance to sign the attendance sheet." She frowns. "I thought that was strange at the time, but I suppose the FBSS is small enough that they can manage their conventions however they like."

"Mind telling me why you were late?"

She shrugs again. "I went out for a smoke. Lost track of the time."

Her toes press tight into the seat of the chair as she says it. There are no track marks there, either. She doesn't have any of the other symptoms of addiction either. My heart sinks, just a bit. Not because of the lack of drugs – I'm glad she's not on drugs – but because this might just end up being another dead end. I don't want the second case I ever consult on for the NYPD ending up buried in the file room with a big red stamp on it reading _unsolved._

"It was horrible, what happened to Jun." She frowns. "Still, he could be a prick. The only person he was actually nice to was Amber. I don't know what he saw in her. She trailed after him like a little puppy, and I guess some men get off on that."

"That sounds a bit like jealousy, Miss Hardwoode."

Sydney sends me a sharp glance, almost surprised. She probably hadn't expected me to speak. Then she lets out a breath through her nose. "I went out on a date or two with him. Before I realized he was…well, before I realized I was dating a woman instead of a man. I broke it off after that."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something.

"When did you two break up?" Flack asks, careful to keep his face smooth and passive. Sydney scoffs again.

"I dunno. Must have been the day before the con started? That prying bitch Elinor caught us in the fashion hall. She told me the truth after that, and I broke up with Jun. And then the con started and I was busy again. I didn't see him until he was dead."

She keeps using _he_ instead of _she_ to describe Jun Takayama. I file that away in my head. "I take it you've never dated a transgender person before, then."

She shakes her head. "I'm not a lesbian, Dr. Carter. I like men."

I want to snap at her. Maybe shake her for her stupid cruelty. I've seen some of the posts left behind on Jun Takayama's Myspace page, and his parents…I can't imagine it. I clench my hands on my knees and keep quiet instead. Accusing her of bigotry won't help right now; it'll just pour fuel on the fire.

Besides, she's given us a motive. Jun Takayama hadn't had a sex change. If Sydney Hardwoode had expected something, discovering that Jun was biologically female, no matter who he had actually been, might have humiliated her enough to drive her to certain measures.

Flack must have picked up on my fury, because he nudges me in the leg with the end of his pencil. "One last question, Miss Hardwoode, and then we'll be outta your hair."

"Go ahead."

"In your association with the FBSS, ever come across any heroin?"

She licks her lips. She's nervous again. "N-No. Not at all. Why do you ask?"

"Just following a lead." Flack flips his notebook shut. "Thank you for your time, Miss Hardwoode. We'll let you know if we need anything else."

I can't wait to get out of there. There's a sick feeling in my stomach, as though something's crawled inside and died there. Flack stands, and then pauses, going very quiet. Sydney Hardwoode doesn't notice; she's clearing up the teapot. I follow his gaze, and feel my breathing catch.

Sitting smack in the middle of the counter is a glass jar filled with indigo dye.

_Well._ I stare at it. _Hello there, woad._

* * *

><p>It only takes a trip down the elevator to drive the woad right out of my head and into the bushes outside. Even for an elevator, this one feels cramped, and I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths to keep from panicking at the close confines and the cheesy music spiraling out of the PA system. Flack keeps quiet, and I'm thankful for it. It's only when we've pulled out of the parking garage and back onto the street when he turns to me and says, "You seemed a bit tense."<p>

"I was pissed. I didn't think socking her in the face was the best idea, so I kept quiet. Did it show?"

"Not really, unless you were lookin' for it." He's silent for a while. When he speaks again, he talks carefully, like he's treading through a mine field. "Wanna tell me why you were so pissed?"

I get angry easily. I know that. I've always managed to get into fights, even before I joined the force; it's one of the reasons my parents were more than willing to let me fade into the background. It's also part of the reason Miles was so hard on me, right at the beginning of my rookie days. Getting mad, as a cop, is fine. When you see horror every day, sometimes it's better to be angry than depressed, or, worse, not feeling anything at all. Acting on that anger, however, is most definitely unacceptable. So I close my eyes for a little bit. "She just…grated on me, is all."

"Oh." He pauses again. "You gonna be emotionally compromised by this case, Doc?"

"No." I refuse to be emotionally compromised. "It's just we get – I used to get transgender kids through the Safe House sometimes. These kids have it so hard, Flack. A lot of them had run away from home, or they'd been kicked out, just for trying to be who they are. It's…tough."

I don't mention that I'd later had to ID two of those Safe House kids in the morgue. One had been suicide. One had been murder. The murder had gone unsolved. Considering what had happened to Jun Takayama, it's not something I want to talk about.

A few minutes of breathing, and then I shake myself out of it. The results of the interview may not be exactly what I wanted, but we still have a bit more information than we did before. "So, do you think Elinor Parson's lying, or Sydney Hardwoode?"

"Let's be smart and assume both of 'em are." He drums his finger on the steering wheel. "That was one fancy apartment for a law student."

"Her parents might be paying for it. We'll have to look into them if we can." I pause. "She went all twitchy when you asked about the heroin, though, so there's that."

"She's not a user," says Flack. "Or she doesn't look like one, anyway. Dealer, maybe?"

"That's what I was thinking." Using her meal ticket to kill her ex-boyfriend, though…that doesn't make sense. The woad's more interesting to me. I mention it, and then add, "It was on Jun Takayama's hands?"

"Mostly on his fingers." He gives me a look. "You know that, Doc."

Of course I do. I talk when I think. "Hawkes said the highest concentration of it was on his fingertips, mostly, as though he'd been painting something. That's why he was wearing gloves when we found the body, he didn't want anyone to see his blue hands." What he actually painted is still a mystery, though. "It's another connection between the two."

"It could be nothing."

"But it also could be something." My phone rings, and I make a face. "Sorry."

He waves a hand and goes back to driving, and I flip open the phone. "Hello?"

"Dr. Bridget Carter?" It's a female voice, a bit husky; maybe a smoker. I can't tell over the connection.

"Yes?"

"My name is Detective Kaile Maka; I'm a homicide detective with the New York City Police Department. I was wondering if you would be available to consult on a case."

* * *

><p>AN:

For those who are wondering, Kaile Maka is a canon character; she's the female cop who helps Danny investigate the mob-boss/art forgery case in Season One. Can't remember which episode, sorry.

I'm too tired to answer individual reviews here at the moment, but just to let you know: I've edited Pretending a little bit again, not enough for you guys to need to reread anything, but if things seem a bit different, that's why. (For example, Kylar is now Miles, along with some other minor things.)

I'll send you some responses in the morning, but for now, I'm off to bed before FFnet eats this file again. ;-;

EDIT: 6/11/12

I can't be sure when I'll get the next chapter up. I'm thinking about the long-term plot, and I'm estimating that right now, I want to go at least to the end of season two (not through the whole series, probably, because that'd take wayyyy too long). So that's the temporary goal.

Considering that, it means Pretending will most likely be quite long, and thus I'll be updating it more often in connection with the one other story I'll be working on. I won't be updating very quickly, but I will hopefully be updating.

I'm almost done with _Domina Esques_, and once that's over with, I'll hopefully have more time.

So, now for individual review responses.

**Dispatchvampire: **Well, then, m'dear, your reviews are the things that warm _my _heart. It's always wonderful to see you leave a note behind, because you always make me smile, and your devotion to the story is the best thing a reader could ask for. Thank you so much for all your support so far, and I hope to see you again soon.

**Thorne Lockheart:** You, also, are part of the reason I'm continuing this story, m'dear. You're very good at making me laugh. ;) Also, I'll see your assface and raise you an assbutt (in a not-so-subtle reference...anyone? anyone?)

**yaba: **You three are really the blocks on which this story is founded. I'm so thankful for you guys. ;_; Yes, trust is quite important to Bridget for reasons that will be explained, and writing Flack is _loads _of fun; I hope to add more pieces of his POV in future.

**Aria DeLoncray: **Aww, thank you! Yup, Flack is pretty much a softie, though he doesn't show it too often.

**Stampiej:** Thank you very much, love! :3

** : **Thank you, dear~

**brucy:** /


	20. The Rut in the Road

**1.20**

Kaile Maka is in her thirties at the most, a surprisingly tall Asian woman with serious dark eyes and subtle gold highlights in her pin-straight hair. She moves curiously too, orienting herself around her left arm, the way an injured person does when they're careful of wrenching something. It seems like an old habit, though, because she offers her hand without a single wince. "Dr. Carter."

"Bridget's fine." Her handshake is firm and quick. Businesslike. This is one detective I haven't heard much about from Aiden; I'm not quite sure what to expect. "Sorry I'm a bit late. I had to come back from the Upper East Side and there was traffic."

"Hellish," adds Flack, who's popped out of nowhere. He grins a bit. "Hey, Kaile. How's the war wound?"

"Sore, but good." She rotates her arm a bit. "You look cheerful."

"Break in the case." He claps his file against my shoulder. It might be friendly, but there's a bit of a reminder there too. Possessiveness as well. I ignore that, as well I should. _For God's sake, I'm not going to forget about the Takayama case._ "I'm going to see if I can track down a warrant. See you upstairs in a bit, Doc."

"Right," I reply, and he vanishes into the crowd of uniforms. Detective Maka looks at me curiously, just a bit stricken.

"I'm sorry, if I'd known you were already working a case, I wouldn't have bothered you—"

"It's all right." After all, it's not like I'm Flack's personal psychologist. Still, I haven't really considered working with anyone outside the people I already know here. Logically it's a bit ridiculous, but it wasn't something I ever really thought about. I clear my throat. "I could really use a coffee. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. This way." Rather than heading upstairs towards the staffroom like I expect, Detective Maka slips through the crowding of the precinct, heading for the main doors. Outside there's a gaggle of uniforms and detectives, smoking and chattering; three of them lift their hands hand to wave at Detective Maka as we pass, looking pleased. Maka nods curtly back. Definitely a smoker, then.

We stop at a coffee cart at the end of the street, run by an Asian man who gives me the stinkeye but greets Detective Maka with a bit of a smile and a question I can't quite make out. It's in Korean, I think. Detective Maka replies, and then steps back, gesturing me forward. It's only after I order my coffee and the coffee guy has started playing around with the hot plate that Maka turns back to me, and looks me over from top to toe. I'm not sure what she sees, but her mouth quirks.

"So," I say, and stare at the hot plate where Coffee Guy is boiling water. "You said you wanted me to consult on a case?"

"Inspector Gerrard said your current case was in a bit of a dead end, so I thought it would be all right to call you." She crosses her arms over her chest and drums her fingers in a tattoo against the sleeve of her coat. It's cold out here; it hasn't snowed yet, but it soon will, and the air is frosting in front of my mouth like dragon's breath. December in the city. Bring on the Christmas tourists. "He mentioned you're working with the crime lab?"

"Kind of." Mac's the one who hired me, after all. Coffee Guy forks over Detective Maka's drink and heads back to the hot plate to craft my mocha. "I'm acting in tandem with both the crime lab and investigative branch of the NYPD in order to provide psychological insight to cases I'm called in to consult on. It means I do anything from follow a cop around on a case to observing interviews to just looking at case files and giving you my professional opinion." She still looks a bit concerned, so I add, "And I can actually work more than one case at once, so that's fine by me."

"It's a bit unorthodox, you following Detective Flack around while he's on the job, isn't it?"

"I worked as a crime scene investigator for a little while a few years ago. I know what to stay out of. Besides, I like being involved." I don't explain anything more than that. "What is it you want to talk to me about, Detective? You haven't said much about it."

She bites her lip, and cracks the lid on her coffee cup, inhaling the steam thoughtfully. Then she lifts her head. "Know anything about human trafficking, Doctor Carter?"

"Some." Mostly over the Mexican border. The general theory is similar, though. "What are we talking about here, sex trafficking?"

"Among other things." Detective Maka pulls a tin of cigarettes from her pocket with her free hand, snapping it open and closing it, snapping it open and closing it. A nervous habit. She must realize it, too, because with a glance at me, she tucks it back into her pocket instead. "I was working a kidnapping case a month and a half ago when we caught on to a smuggling ring down in Jersey that was sneaking girls into the country through Manhattan. I was shot on a raid of one of their warehouses, put out of commission for a while. The investigation was given to my second-in-command at the time, but the trail went cold. We still haven't tracked most of them down."

The Coffee Guy finishes my mocha. It's surprisingly decent, considering the fact that it's off a hot plate. Maka turns a bit, and we start back towards the precinct. "They were loading the girls into a semi when we executed the raid. A handful were left behind, drugged, confused. They were put into the hospital, and since then a few of them have gone back to their families."

"A few of them?"

"Most of them," she corrects, and sips her coffee. "There's one left. According to the other girls, her name is Rosa Gonzalez, from El Paso, Texas. We weren't able to find a missing person's report, and we can't track down her next of kin, either."

"But it's been a month, hasn't it? Even if she was in shock back at the raid, she should have given you an address or phone number by now."

"That's the problem, Dr. Carter. She's hasn't said a word since we took her into custody."

"Is she catatonic?"

"The doctors say no. She responds to physical stimuli; she looks at you if you walk in the room, she hears you if you talk to her. There's nothing physically wrong with her that we know of. She just can't speak. She's mute."

I've read case files about people losing their ability to speak after a traumatic event. It's relatively rare, mostly the result of shock. Still, it's often not permanent. "She could just write an address down for you?"

"There are some…suspicions that she's faking it." Maka rubs her shoulder, absently. "She doesn't talk to any of us. She doesn't listen to any of us. She sits in her room and she reads. She's perfectly lucid; she's simply refusing to communicate."

"Where is she staying?"

"Bellevue Psychiatric Ward. We have her there under an assumed name just in case someone undesirable starts looking for her, but she's had more than enough time to give us contact information for her family, and she hasn't. She won't even consider it. And she won't tell us anything about what happened after she was snatched, either. None of it." Maka casts a jealous look at the group of smoking cops standing on the precinct steps, and then we walk past them, back into the building. Pierce gives me a black look as we pass her desk. "Which is why I wanted to talk to you."

"You wanted to see if I could get her to speak."

"I want an alternate opinion as to whether or not she's physically disabled or simply refusing to cooperate. And yes, I want to see if a fresh face and a different approach might get her to talk." She sighs. "It's a long shot, Dr. Carter, but we're at that point. I need to track these men down, and I have reason to believe that Rosa Gonzalez can help me do that. She simply won't talk about it."

"How would she know that?"

"That's another thing we want to find out." Maka settles at one of the desks, gesturing to the chair opposite hers. "I was wondering if you would be able to talk to her, maybe get her to talk back."

Detective Maka's desk is squeaky clean, and all the drawers have locks. She's careful, if nothing else. Maka opens the top left drawer, pulls out a file, and offers it to me. Rosa Gonzalez is a pretty girl in her late teens at the most, with a long scar just under her jaw, starting at the base of her ear and stretching down to her chin. It's still red, in the photograph, fresh as paint. The consulting doctor at Bellevue is a man named Dr. Markus Talon. Maka stays quiet as I scan it, going over the results. "She's pregnant?"

"End of the first trimester. Talon thinks that may be why she's keeping quiet, but she won't even acknowledge he exists anymore, and if any other psychologist comes into the room, she throws things." She lifts her bad shoulder in a shrug and then hisses a bit. Even if she's back on duty, it doesn't mean she's not damn sore. Gunshots hurt, and they take a hell of a long time to heal, as I unfortunately know from experience. "That's actually the reason why I wanted you to talk to her."

"I'm not from Bellevue?"

"You're not on orders." Maka sips her coffee. "Not to mention the fact that you're a new face, someone she's never seen before. Mac said you have experience with teenage psychology, so you might have the advantage over the Bellevue doctors."

"The people who work at Bellevue are very good, Detective Maka. It's very likely that they're far better than me. I can't promise anything."

"I'm aware of that, but we're at the end of our rope here, Dr. Carter. We need to see what she knows. We need to get her to talk. If there's any chance you could at least try to help us with that, I would be very appreciative."

There's not much I can say to that. I lean back in the chair, and then I stand, tucking the folder under my arm. "I'll do the best I can, Detective."

She's instantly relieved. Maka stands, and offers her hand. "Thank you, Dr. Carter. I'll call you tomorrow morning once I've arranged a meeting."

"Of course." It'll mean a late night going over the case file, but it's not like I'm going to sleep much tonight anyway. Her handshake is just the same as it was twenty minutes ago, fast, businesslike, full of intention. "I'll see you tomorrow, Detective."

"You can call me Kaile, if you like. Everyone does." She digs into her pocket, and then offers me a card. "Just to make sure you recognize the number. Thank you again, very much."

"What am I here for otherwise?" I smile, and then turn, and head for the stairs. After all, Flack should have managed to track down a willing judge by now.

* * *

><p>It takes a while, but when I finally find him, Flack's in the whiteboard room, snarling through the phone pacing back and forth like a chained dog. There's no point in sitting there and watching him fight with the legal system, so instead I wave through the window to let him know I'm done, and then go to find somewhere to sit.<p>

Aiden is off on a case somewhere. So is Danny. I find Stella in the staff room, though, going over a case file and sipping at an absolutely enormous mug of coffee. She looks up when I knock on the door, and to my surprise, she smiles. Stella has always been the one CSI here at the crime lab that I haven't quite managed to get along with yet. I'm not certain if it's because I haven't had a lot of chances to actually speak with her, or because she's so absolutely intense, or both. Well, all of the people who work here are intense in one way or another, but Stella is just a bit different than the rest, and it's enough to throw me off a little. "Hey, Dr. Carter. I didn't think you'd be in today."

"Bridget's fine."

She smiles. "Sorry. I keep forgetting. Most of us aren't all that hung up on titles, but it takes a while to change old habits, you know?" Her eyes flick down to the folder under my arm, but she doesn't comment. "I heard from Flack you guys had a break in the case?"

"We're following a new lead." I waver, just for a second. Then I feel stupid for doing it, and join her at the table. "Hopefully we'll be able to work some things out today."

"Good."

It's just a bit awkward, sitting here with nothing much to say. I don't really have a lot other than the case that I feel comfortable talking about, at least, not with Stella. So I clear my throat, and ask, "Do you know Detective Maka?"

"Kaile? Yeah, I've worked a few cases with her. Danny knows her better; she was his supervisor for a while, while he was working the beat. She worked out of organized crime, mostly. Good cop. Bit standoffish at first, but we all are, really. Did she ask you to consult on something?"

I nod. I don't really want to go into details. I'm not even sure if I can. Stella doesn't seem to notice; she leans back in her chair, smiling a bit. "She must have heard about you from Flack, or Gerrard. Flack likes you, and as much as the illustrious inspector doesn't care for scientists, he's not exactly the sort of man who will let a tool go unused. No offense, Bridget."

"None taken." After all, she said scientists and not psychologists.

"If Kaile's talking to you, then you'll probably get more requests soon, from the detective floor, at least." She drums her fingers on the edge of the table, and sighs. "If we have to move, it's gonna be a hell of a lot more inconvenient for us."

For a second, I think I've heard her wrong. "Move?"

"The city treasury is a bit low to keep this location open. The detectives won't leave – it's the 12th, they can't shut it down – but the crime lab might be moved. It'll get smaller, probably. Budget cuts are killing everyone this decade." She looks grouchy about it, too. "It's not a done deal yet, but there are rumblings, and they usually mean business."

"Where would you move?"

"We'd probably go somewhere in midtown. It'd mean reducing a lot, that's for sure. Still, we'll keep autopsy, and it'll mean a lot more fingerprints being uploaded into the databases. I think there are some uniforms working on that now. But no matter what, we can't carry hundreds of boxes of cards along with us to a smaller location. It doesn't make sense. And if we're lucky, we'll get more high-tech equipment, which'd be a blessing."

It would also mean fewer elevator trips, if I keep coming to the crime lab. That sounds preferable to me, at least. Combining all the different doctrines of forensic science into a single floor of a high rise building will be a bit of a stretch. "At least it'll be less of a walk."

"_And _we won't have ballistics crammed into a side room on a floor full of rooms that are being used for nothing but storage." Stella sighs. "As nice as this location is, it'll be good to get out of the way of the precinct, too. We're a bit vulnerable here, especially when it comes to preserving the chain of evidence. If we move to a new spot, we won't have to worry about uniforms wandering in and taking our evidence boxes without signing off."

"Has that happened?"

"Not often, but enough to piss me off." She meets my eyes again, and then, suddenly, she grins. "Still, it'll mean you'll get an office, finally."

She must be joking. Maybe not, though. I can't tell. "What?"

"There hasn't been room here. If we move to a new spot, you'll get the consultant's office. It won't be much, but it'll be better than working out of back rooms, and then Aiden will get her whiteboard back."

"She told you I'm using it?"

"She mentioned it once or twice." Stella's smile softens, just a bit. "She's happy having you there, though. You know how hard it can be, going home to an empty house after everything we do here. And she won't admit it, but she missed you while you were working at the Safe House. She's been happier since you guys became roommates again."

I'm struck again, very suddenly, by how close everyone is in the crime lab. Long hours and tough crimes mean that there are very tight bonds here, and I kick myself for not realizing it earlier. Of course Stella's a bit standoffish – anyone would be, when an intruder enters a closed bubble. It would be like a new psychologist taking up residence in my office in the Safe House while I was still there – or, at least, it would have been. It even took us a long time to get used to Simon, and he had started out as a volunteer before becoming an intern and then, basically, a permanent resident.

I shove thoughts of the Safe House away. She's looking at me curiously, her head cocked to one side, and I smile. "I missed her too. And it's nice, not being woken up in the middle of the night every night. I mean, I don't get back until late, but…it's easier."

Stella watches me for a moment, as though she's looking for something. Then she takes a deep breath. "I heard about what happened with the Safe House, and I have to ask: how are you doing, Bridget?" I blink at her, astonished, and she backtracks fast. "I know we haven't talked all that much, but a blind man could see how much that place means to you, and we've been worried about you. I'm sure it's been hard."

_We've _been worried. Not just _I_, but _we_. Maybe the closed bubble of the crime lab is swallowing me up faster than I thought it would. I clear my throat, and then open the file on Rosa Gonzalez, flipping through the pages to give my eyes something to focus on other than Stella. "It's been difficult. I don't think I'll even be able to volunteer – I can't be associated with the place anymore – so I haven't…called or anything. I miss them." David and Minzy and Simon, Charlie and Matt and the twins; I miss them way more than I want to admit, because if I do, I'll cry, and I absolutely _hate _crying. I take a deep breath, and let it out again. "Still, it can't be helped, I suppose. Douchehats like Lockyer are just…things we have to deal with, you know?"

"Don't I know it." Stella wavers. Then she reaches forward and pats my shoulder, gingerly, like she thinks I'll bite. After a moment, she pulls back, and makes a sympathetic face. "I'm sorry, Bridget."

"It's not your fault." It's mine. But I don't really want to think about that, either. "Don't worry about it, please. I'm working again, and the Safe House goes on. That's all I really care about."

Minzy's eighteen by now. I haven't heard from Clary, either, which means she probably hasn't had to deal with Lockyer. Then I realize that unless she's very, very late, Clary must have had the baby, and my heart swells up. I'll have to call her. Both of them. I can only hope that Minzy will want to talk to me.

"It'd be nice," I say, "to have an office. Could I have my name on the door?"

Stella laughs. "I think it'd be hard to get your name off the door, to be honest. And it'd be nice to have a crime lab with decent lighting, don't you think?"

"Natural sunlight is the gift of a benevolent universe." My phone buzzes in my pocket. Flack. I text him back, quickly, and go back to studying my file, chatting absently with Stella. For the first time, I don't feel awkward around her, and really, I can't remember what the problem was in the first place.

Apparently, according to the judge Flack talked to, the fact that there was a bottle of indigo dye on Sydney Hardwoode's kitchen counter and a suspicion of drug use is not enough to get a hold of a warrant. He's grouchy and scowling when he finally makes it up to the staff room, and to be honest, I'm not in a much better mood. In the years since I left Tucson, I've forgotten how absolutely frustrating working with the DA's office can be, and this is New York, not Arizona. Stella volunteers to talk to another judge, but there's no point, according to Flack. There won't be a different answer if we go a different route, not on evidence like this. No matter what my gut is screaming, a bottle of indigo and a worrying eyewitness testimony is not enough to get a warrant to explore Sydney Hardwoode's brownstone. We need more evidence, but without a warrant, there's little chance of us getting any at all.

I fight the urge to punch the wall, and gulp my coffee.

Stella has to head out on a case, so after she leaves, I go back downstairs with Flack (keeping my eyes closed and my breathing steady in the elevator, trying not to think about the fact that there are people staring at me and that the walls are getting closer and closer and closer). There are a few kids in lockup, 'bangers from the Barrio, and one of them is catcalling every woman in the precinct in sloppy, arrogant, intensely rude Spanish. He calls me a hooker and Flack a pimp before switching to the woman at the desk nearest him, saying horrific things with the most angelic smile on his face. I tune him out. In the cell next to him, one of the uniforms is talking to an older gentleman with vomit stains down the front of his shirt. Public intoxication, then, or drunk driving. Something. He must be sobering up, because his head is hanging like a whipped puppy's.

Flack drops into his desk chair, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. He looks very tired, still. There are rings under his eyes. I lean against the edge of his desk and sip my coffee, trying to think. "You okay?"

"Not really." He rubs the spot between his eyebrows. Then he opens his eyes, and smacks the top of his desk with a closed fist, angrily. "_Dammit_!"

"We'll figure something out."

"I know." Still, he punches the desk again before being satisfied. "I _hate_ the DA's office sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

That cracks a bit of a smile. Not much of a one, but still. Better than a scowl. "Coming from you, Doc, that's downright uncharitable."

"You think just because I have lawyer friends I'm not as pissed as you? Please." I nudge him with my foot. "Besides, I think Biggan, Biggan, and Poley is the only law firm in the city that doesn't take on drug dealers in one way or another."

Another smile, just a bit wider this time, and then Flack gets serious again. "Once Crengle makes up his mind, he's not going to change it. He was our best bet, too; hafta admit it was a bit of a stretch, going for a warrant on hearsay and a coincidence. We don't even know if the woad has anythin' to do with the murder."

"I know. But still."

"Still."

At the door, Pierce starts shouting at the Subway Hobo again. He comes in once a week, at least, to complain about the state of the subway tunnels under Manhattan. I don't know why she doesn't just boost the guy out on his ass every time she sees him. Maybe she likes arguing with him, I dunno. I swirl the coffee in my mug, and sigh. "Maybe we should go back to the witness list."

"It's been a month and a half. Eyewitnesses are next to useless after a couple days, let alone a month."

"I know that, but we've gone over everything else about ten-thousand times." He can't argue with that, and he knows it. Flack gives me a sour look. "Come on, Detective. We need to do _something_. Besides, it's possible that they'll have something more to tell us about Sydney Hardwoode. We might be able to bust her for heroin possession at the very least."

He grunts. Then he goes absolutely still, staring blankly into lockup, and the 'banger starts cursing him for a faggot. I snap at the guy in Spanish, and then look back to Flack, who hasn't noticed any of it. "Flack?"

"Amber," he says, and I blink.

"What?"

"Amber must have known about Takayama's relationship with Sydney Hardwoode. She didn't say a word."

"She was a jealous, distraught teenage girl. Of course she wouldn't have." Still, he has a definite point, and after a moment, I clear my throat. "You want to talk to her again?"

"Damn right I want to talk to her again. And this time, I want to talk to her without her stepmother peering over her shoulder."

Amber Parson is a minor. Technically, we won't be able to talk to her without a representative. Still, I understand what he means. Even if we'd followed her upstairs, back at the hotel, she'd still been in the same building as her family, as the FBSS, in known territory. Here in the precinct, we would have the advantage. At least, that was the theory. It's one I want to test on Sydney Hardwoode.

"What did Kaile want?" Flack asks, as he pulls up the case files on his computer, looking for the right phone number. "She looked serious."

"I'm consulting on something for her. I probably won't be available tomorrow afternoon, by the way. You'll have to investigate on your own."

"C'mon, really? You're leavin' me to the wack jobs in corsets? That's harsh."

I have nothing to say to that. So instead I lean forward, and point. "There's the number. You wanna call her or should I?"

He deliberates. "You. She was talkin' to you, back at the hotel. When I tried she went skittish."

She had, a little bit. I'm surprised he picked up on it. I shouldn't be, I suppose. For someone who doesn't believe in psychology, Flack's very good at translating body language. "All right. How many times have we talked to her?"

"We talked to her at the hotel, and again for an official statement, but other than that?" He shrugs. "We've left her alone. No one saw the point. There were no red flags, after all."

"Right." I make the call. Amber answers in a groggy voice, and it takes her a while to wake up, but eventually it works out. She'll come down in about an hour, if she can get away from her stepmother. I inform her we'll have a legal representative to accompany her into the interview waiting at the station, and she agrees. She's not an idiot, after all. I can only hope the representative – whoever they are – doesn't blow our chances to get our warrant. Once it's done, Flack cocks his head a bit.

"You eaten yet, Doc?"

"Not really." I'm not that hungry, either, but that's normal for me. Doesn't mean I don't need food. "What'd you have in mind?"

"I was gonna grab a slice with Messer."

Pizza sounds kind of perfect. "Would you guys mind?"

"Not at all." He stands, and executes an elaborate bow that would have caught a standing ovation at any theatre in town. "After you."

"Show-off."

He shrugs, but he doesn't deny it. I tuck the files on Jun Takayama and Rosa Gonzalez under my arm. I'll need something to think about if they start talking hockey like last time.

The pizza place turns out to be not too far from the 12th Precinct, a little place tucked into the second floor of a hardware store called Ray's. Even so, the place is packed, and there's a large sign on the door proclaiming: _Discounts offered to cops, teachers, soldiers, doctors, and firefighters. ID REQUIRED OR ELSE. No on-the-job alcohol served. _

Does that mean I get a double-discount, or would I be pushing it to ask? Still, I'm surprised I haven't heard about this place before. It's rare to find a restaurant with its head screwed on straight, after all. "They could add union-workers and garbage men, too, make it a party of the most underprivileged in the city."

Flack waves that off. "Discount's just a perk. This place? Best pizza in Manhattan. Swear to God."

"You know, you keep swearin' at God, he's not gonna like you anymore, and then you're kinda screwed." It's Danny. Over his shoulder I can see Aiden sitting at one of the high tables, studying a menu and ignoring the roar of the pizzeria. "Hey, Doc."

"Don't call me—"

"Doc, sorry. _Bridget_." He waggles his eyebrows, and then turns. "C'mon. Pizza's ordered."

"No sardines, yeah?"

"Gimme a break, Flack, when have I ever ordered pizza with fish on it? It'd be ruined and then where would we be?"

"There's nothin' wrong with sardines," says Aiden, and she rolls her eyes at me in greeting. There are worry marks around the corners of her mouth, though. "Hey, Bridge. Reggie can't make it tonight. I just hung up on her."

"Why not? Did she say?"

"No." The tone says Aiden's determined to find out why, though. "I'll call her in an hour, try to see what's goin' on."

I put an arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head before sitting down. I might be worried about Regina, but in all honesty, she's Aiden's friend, and Aiden processed her rape, and Aiden's having that much harder a time with this whole situation because of it. Danny's watching us out of the corner of his eye, but to my relief, he doesn't ask. Instead, he goes off about sardines again, and I watch them, quietly, thankfully, as the conversation shifts tone into something simple and easy.

After all, how can I say what I really think – that Regina is going to lose her nerve, withdraw the charges, and let her rapist walk free – in front of Aiden?

* * *

><p><strong>AN.**

There ya go; another chapter. :D Hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly now, though I'm a bit leery of due dates right now.

I'm teaching pre-algebra for the rest of the summer - wish me luck! I'm kind of terrified right now, just FYI.

**CSIGetteBlue:** Here's more. ;)

**yaba: **Aww, thank you, dear. I feel really bad about how long it took me to update this story, especially because I love both Bridget and Flack so much. ;_; Forgive me, please.


	21. Back To The Start

**1.21**

Amber Parson is nothing like the Lady Elinor.

For starters, she's less antsy; she sits in the interrogation room with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her eyes fixed on the two-way mirror, as though she's trying to pierce it with laser vision. It feels as though she's looking right at me, and it's a little creepy. She doesn't look anything like Elinor either, though considering that Elinor is her stepmother, that's not too much of a surprise. She's not obsessively skinny, nor is she blonde. Instead, her hair is dark, almost black, her eyes precisely the same shade. There are dark bruises under them, like thumbprints. Like Regina's eyes. She's still wearing the black lace gloves made by Jun Takayama, and as I watch, she runs her fingers over the cloth, reassuring herself that it's still there.

Next to me, Flack lets out a breath. "Well? What do you think?"

"You want my opinion as a psychologist or just as an observer?"

He makes a face at me. "Doc."

"Fine, I'll stop." But he's getting psychologist, not observer. "She's nervous."

"How d'you figure?"

"Wouldn't you be if you were called into the police station to be interviewed about the death of the guy you were in love with?"

"Doc."

"She's sweating. It's too cold in the interview room for it to be anything other than nerves. _And_ she keeps fiddling with her gloves. She probably came down here without telling her stepmother." I set my hand against the window, thoughtfully. "She's good, though. Not like Elinor. She's under control, probably been thinking about what to say. This'll be harder than last time."

Flack's silent for a moment. "Those gloves are the ones Takayama gave her, right?"

"The ones she claims he gave her, yeah." I give him a considering look. "You close with your sister?"

"Yeah, used to be. How'd you know?"

"Common sense, Flack. Typically guys don't remember the patterns on gloves unless they've had to critique a sister's choice." I can't resist. "Or were you checkin' out some lacy gloves for yourself, Detective?"

Flack's eyebrows go up. "Hey, they keep your hands warm."

"Smartass." I roll my eyes. "Who's the counselor?"

"That's Barry McCaffery, court-appointed legal representative and all-around pain in the ass." He pauses. "He'll try to walk all over you, warnin' you now. He doesn't like people like you."

"People like me?"

"Intelligent women intimidate him." He shakes his hands out, not looking me in the face, keeping his eyes on Barry McCaffery, Professional Douchecanoe. "He might get aggressive. He's done it before."

I look up, and meet his eyes. He's watching me carefully out of his peripheral vision, waiting for a reaction. Then I remember. The last time I was in an interview room with Flack, it was with Silas Meyer, and Flack was the one who ended up aggressive. I clear my throat, and give McCaffery the once-over. He's tall, attractive, mid-thirties. A redhead, but balding prematurely. His whole posture screams cocky know-it-all, the kind of guy who thinks he's not only God's gift to women, but also God's gift to humanity. Still, it's not as though I have no experience with cocky know-it-all lawyers. "I can handle him."

"Now, that I'm sure of." He says it quite mildly, almost offhandedly, as though it's completely obvious, and for some reason, it's more of a compliment than anything else he could have said. Flack glances over, and his eyes crinkle a bit. "C'mon. This should be interesting."

I wave the folder at him. "Hopefully we'll get enough out of her for a warrant."

"That's what I'm hopin', Doc."

Amber's not as calm as she's pretending to be; she jumps violently when we open the door, and her eyes flick quickly between me and Flack, as though she's trying to decide which one of us is going to attack first. Then she settles on me, and starts to stand. "Dr. Carter—"

"Sit down, Amber. This shouldn't take long." I glance at Barry McCaffery, and then back at Amber as Flack turns on the tape and speaks into it – our names, the case number, the date, the time, the number of the interrogation room. McCaffery watches us in total silence, that half-smirk still plastered across his face. It's only once all that's done that Flack glances at me, and I lick my lips. "I told you on the phone we wanted to ask a few more questions about Jun's death, if you're comfortable with that."

"Excuse me, but what is she doing in here?" McCaffery's looking at Flack; so far as I can tell, he's barely given me a glance. "I don't see a badge. Civilians don't participate in interviews, Detective."

Flack says nothing. Doesn't mean he doesn't want to tear the guy a new one, but he keeps his mouth shut, and I'm grateful for it. "I'm a consultant, Mr. McCaffery, and if you have any complaints, take them to Mac Taylor." I don't bother to show him my badge. Instead, I glance at Flack, and then add, "Or Captain Gerrard here at the 12th. Both of them can confirm my legitimacy if you'd care to take it up with them."

For the first time, McCaffery looks me straight in the face. His expression is unsettlingly blank. Then the corner of his mouth quirks, and he looks away. I can practically hear the complaints he'll make later in the bar to his friends. _Vain little bitch with a head bigger than the rest of her put together._ Ah, well. C'est la vie. I turn back to Amber, and sit down in the chair across from hers. "Amber?"

She jerks again, and looks at me blankly for a moment. "Oh. Yeah. Um. That's fine with me."

"Excellent. Start at the beginning, please. Where were you at the beginning of the con?"

"I came in to the hotel the night before with Elinor to go over the last few things. She had me stuffing folders all night. I…called Jun, but he didn't pick up." She picks at her glove again. "I stayed in the same room as Elinor. Like usual."

"Where was your dad?"

"My dad doesn't like cons. He was back in Brooklyn."

"Any brothers or sisters go with you?" asks Flack. Amber shakes her head.

"I'm an only child."

"I'm sorry—" McCaffery leans forward, resting his hand on the table. "What exactly does my client's personal history have to do with the incident you're investigating?"

"We're gettin' to that, McCaffery, keep your pants on." Flack turns back to Amber. "What happened the next morning?"

"There was a breakfast for all the con members – they all checked in, including Jun, even though he was grumpy about it – and then I was helping Elinor with the first panel. A session on steampunk mechanicals? That went until…ten, I think. Then I went to the literature panel."

"What about Elinor, where did she go?"

"To the panel on doll-making, I think. You'll have to check with her. I'm sure she signed in. It was her idea to have the sign-in sheets anyway."

The same sign-in sheets which established the alibis of everyone in the convention except, conveniently, Sydney Hardwoode, the same person Elinor had delivered to us on a silver platter. I don't like the smell of this.

"Did you happen to see this woman there?" I ask, and slide Sydney Hardwoode's photograph across the table to Amber. She picks it up, gingerly, in two fingers, and sets it down again just as quickly, looking at me with big eyes.

"Sydney? I don't remember. I…I think so. Maybe. I'm not sure." She deliberates. "I don't remember seeing her by the time the panel started. I had to take attendance, so…"

"You know Sydney Hardwoode?"

"Yeah, she helped me organize the fashion show. Why, what does any of this have to do with Sydney?" Amber hesitates. "You don't…suspect her, do you?"

Flack leans back in his chair, keeping one eye on McCaffery, the other on Amber, gauging tempers, reactions. "Considering that Sydney Hardwoode and Jun Takayama were in a sexual relationship up until the start of the convention, we might."

Amber jerks, as though she's been struck in the face with a frying pan. Her face pinks up. Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, holding it and letting it out as slow as she can. I lean forward, speak quietly. "Did you know about their relationship, Amber?"

"….yeah. I knew. I didn't like it, but I knew." She's crying, or trying very hard not to. Amber dashes a tear off her cheek. "I mean, what else could I do? He was…he was never gonna look at me. I knew that, even if I didn't want to admit it. Didn't mean I didn't want him happy." Her voice breaks.

Flack's quiet. He leans forward. "You didn't tell us about it when we spoke to you at the scene."

"I didn't…I didn't think. Sydney was…she was with me when the maid found the body."

"So she _was _in that panel?"

"She found me in the crowd on the balcony. I don't—" One hand goes to her temple. "I don't know, I don't remember, I'm sorry."

"Amber—"

"Really," says McCaffery, and he smiles at the both of us, half rising out of his chair. "It's clear Miss Parson here doesn't know much of anything, so if we could just bring this interview to a close—"

"We're not done yet," says Flack, and stares at McCaffery. For the first time, the smile flickers, just a bit. "Sit down, Mr. McCaffery."

McCaffery looks at Flack. Then, slowly, he sinks back into his seat, and leans over to Amber. "You are fully aware, of course, that you are able to refuse to answer any of their questions if you'd prefer to leave now, Miss Parson."

"I'm fine." She waves him off. "I'm _fine_. I came here for a reason. I want to help."

"Did Sydney Hardwoode ever mention anything about her social life to you, Amber?"

She's confused now. "Social life?"

"Her friends, who she was dating, who she hung out with, that sort of thing."

"Not really. I mean, she talked about an ex-boyfriend of hers a couple of times, but other than that she never really mentioned anyone." Her lip twists. "She might have been helping me with the fashion show, but we aren't really friends. I mean, she feels sorry for me, I guess. And…"

"And you were in love with Jun," I finish for her, and Amber nods.

"This ex-boyfriend have a name?" Flack asks.

"Michael. Michael Firachenzo." She watches Flack write it down. "I met him once, a year ago. I didn't like him very much. He acted like a 'banger. I mean, I don't hang out with 'bangers," she adds quickly, "a few go to my old school and he…he reminded me of them, I guess."

"Did Michael ever strike you as a user? You know, a drug addict?"

"I know what a user is." She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. I only met him once. Sydney mentioned once or twice that he would get high with his friends sometimes, but she never really talked about it in front of me."

The more I talk to Amber Parson, the more I'm convinced she has absolutely nothing to do with the drugging and death of Jun Takayama. The evidence doesn't point to her at all; not even a stray fingerprint. Not only that, but _she_ doesn't strike me as the type. It's still possible she could have been the one to wield the bloody knife that Danny found in the garbage, but I rather doubt it. I've met enough sociopaths in my life to pick them out if I try hard enough, and Amber just…isn't. She's not a guilt-ridden murderer, just a grieving teenager. I glance at Flack, and swirl my finger in the air. _Wrap it up_. Across the table, McCaffery looks bored. "I assume that means we can go, Detective?"

"One last thing." Amber blinks at Flack, looking like a doe caught in the headlights. "Did you ever hear anything about heroin, from Sydney Hardwoode or anyone else through the FBSS?"

"No." She looks astonished. "No, never. Why?"

"It's a lead. We might call you again, Miss Parson, but for now, you're free to go." He doesn't acknowledge McCaffery. "I'll show you out, yeah? You have a ride?"

"I'll take the subway home," she says, and she glances back at me once before following Flack out the door. It shuts behind them with a click, and I finally let myself relax, collecting Sydney Hardwoode's photograph and slipping it back into my file. On the other side of the table, McCaffery clicks his briefcase shut. His eyes snap to me and trace my movements as I sort through the file, slip my shoes back on my feet, and stand. He's half-smiling. It's making me slightly nervous.

I hesitate, tucking the file under my arm. "Do you have something to say, Mr. McCaffery, or is there something else can do for you?"

His smile gets wider. "There are probably a lot of things you could do for me, but I don't think those are appropriate for an interrogation room."

The hair on the back of my neck stands right up. Flack did say this guy was an asshole, but I wasn't expecting something this blatant this fast. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was there something else you wanted me to say?"

"You're way out of line."

"For God's sake, it was only a joke. Don't get your panties in a twist."

There's nothing I can say to that without him turning it back on me. So I step away from the table, headed for the door. McCaffery's right behind me. I can almost feel his breath on the back of my neck. "So," he says, as we step out of the interrogation room and into the precinct. "How long have you been working with the NYPD, Miss Bridget Carter?"

"It's Doctor." There are _way _too many douchehats in my life. This is the second time in two months that I've had to insist on my title instead of my name, and it rankles. "And to be frank, that's none of your business, Mr. McCaffery."

"Must be new, then, because I haven't seen you around before now. Not fair of you to hide away from the rest of us, Dr. Carter."

God, I wish I had an office. Then I could lock him out, at least. How the hell do I keep meeting so many sleazebags? First Silas Meyer, now this. "I'm sure you have something else to do, Mr. McCaffery, I don't want to keep you."

"It's Barry." For a guy who's supposedly so intimidated by women in positions of power, he sure can't take a hint. That, or he's trying to assert himself again. I stop at Flack's desk, and sit down in the witness chair, waiting for him to come back. McCaffery leans up against the side of the desk, and bops the Rangers player bobblehead that's sitting next to Flack's computer. It almost looks like the thing is cackling. "Mr. McCaffery sounds too formal."

"You wanna get off Flack's desk, please, Mr. McCaffery?"

It's as though he hasn't heard me at all. "When do you get off, Dr. Carter? I'm sure after being stuck around cops all day, you could use some intelligent companionship."

That's it. "I have more than enough intelligent companionship here at the precinct, Mr. McCaffery. Besides, I highly doubt that going out with you would give me anything more than a gigantic headache."

Blood rushes into his cheeks so fast it's as though he's dipped his face in paint. He stands. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Mr. McCaffery." I keep my voice low and polite. No point in making a scene. "Thank you for representing Amber Parson. Now, if you could please excuse yourself from the premises, then that would be incredibly helpful."

He takes a deep breath. "You're a right little bitch, aren't you? No wonder Flack likes you."

"That's right. Now, this little bitch has a lot of actual work to do, so make yourself scarce before I call a uni over here." He stands, and scoots, clipping Flack on the way out. I raise my voice. "Have a nice day, Mr. McCaffery."

"Not gonna ask," says Flack, but he's grinning, just a bit, when he settles back down into his chair.

* * *

><p>The boyfriend is a lucrative angle. He's already been arrested three times on charges of heroin possession and trafficking, but each time there had never been enough evidence to make it stick; he walked free with community service and vanished into the streets of the city.<p>

Tracking down Michael Firachenzo turns out to be a bit trickier than putting his name into a database, though. He's moved without alerting the proper authorities, so his last known address is worth exactly squat. I say goodbye to Flack on the steps of the 12th before heading to the nearest subway station to go back home. It's only three o'clock, but I feel ready to collapse, and I can only hope that Gina hasn't scheduled me for a last minute shift at the Spotlight.

Aiden won't be back for another couple of hours, at least. She has a case that's actually moving forward, after all. So I curl into the side of the couch with a blanket tucked around my feet and turn on the TV, watching a rerun of _Friends_ and considering the ramifications of Amber Parson's interview.

Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm still not convinced that Amber could be the murderer. There's always the possibility that she's just a very good actress, but I don't see it. She'd been honestly grieving at the hotel and she's still grieving now; the redness in her eyes and the fidgeting with the gloves told us that much. Besides, other than the jealousy angle, we don't have motive, and we certainly don't have means or opportunity so far as I can tell. Just a sad teenage girl.

Elinor Parson's an interesting case, too. She took possession of all of the sign-in sheets at the convention; she could have easily forged her own signature to make an alibi for herself. But she's thin, almost anorexic thin; I'm not sure she'd be able to lift Jun Takayama and throw him over the edge of the balcony, even after he'd been sedated and then stabbed.

Then there's Sydney Hardwoode. She's mixed up in this somehow – the distinct mixture of nerves and calm that she displayed when we came to her brownstone is enough of an indicator for that – but without a warrant we can't get a hold of the woad _or _search her apartment for heroin. She has no priors. I'm still interested in the scar on the back of her neck, _and _her persistent habit of calling Jun a he, despite her reticence to acknowledge him as male, but both of them are probably nothing. Besides, unless we can get a warrant, it won't matter anyway. Despite all of our desperation, the whole thing might just turn out to be a dead end.

What was it Kaile Maka had said? _Inspector Gerrard said your current case was in a bit of a dead end, so I thought it would be all right to call you. _It's been nearly two months since we started investigating the death of Jun Takayama, and despite the fact we've been fairly drowning in evidence, there's been no real way to fit it together. The timeline simply will not add up into something rational, and it's so tight that it'll be near impossible to solve this case without getting a proper fix on it. Not to mention the contradictory evidence and the pure insanity of the broken glass.

Takayama. The whole thing ties back to him, something that he had been doing. Motive for his death is hovering just out of reach. I stare at the TV for a few seconds, watching Phoebe sing about hairs in strange places, and then crawl off the couch and drag my computer out of its nook, turning it on. Jun Takayama's Myspace page is crawling with condolence messages now – things like "He lives large in our memories" and "Keep fighting, man" and "You will be with us forever in our hearts," which is an expression that's always bothered me for some reason, but whatever – and I have to wade through them for a good ten minutes before I finally find the posts he made on the last few days of his life. He's a bit of a jackass – he's more the sort to leave behind scathing insults than compliments on a new dress – but he's missed, even if it's by people who never even showed up to his funeral. The only people he really seems to honestly interact with, even on the internet, are Amber Parson and Sydney Hardwoode.

I scroll through for an hour, even though I've already done this half a dozen times. There's nothing of use. Then, as I move to close out of the page, I see it. It's nothing much, only a single post, but I nearly do a double take when I read it.

_ Coffee Hutch w/Syd & Mike. Bitches should come visit._

"Syd" is probably Sydney, but Mike…is it possible? I scroll through his friends list until I find him, under the listing _Mike "The Tank" Firachenzo. _He doesn't post all that much, but he has a definite online presence, and what do you know – Sydney Hardwoode is listed as his girlfriend. Even if he hasn't logged in since March, that's more than we had before.

Because here, in black and white, is proof that Jun Takayama knew both Sydney Hardwoode and Michael Firachenzo long before his death. As Danny would say, "Boom." If Sydney Hardwoode is getting her drugs from her ex-boyfriend, then it's possible Takayama knew about it. I close the computer and lean my head back against the arm of the couch. There are half a dozen reasons for Jun Takayama to have been killed – more than that, considering how universally he seems to have been disliked – but the only one that seems to be having any relevance is the heroin. And _that _points at Sydney Hardwoode and whoever's helping her through the FBSS.

Okay. Assuming Takayama knew about the heroin smuggling through the FBSS, it's possible – no, it's probable that the note pinned to the wall with a flick knife was about that. _Curiosity killed the cat_. He'd been in a relationship with Sydney Hardwoode; maybe she'd mentioned something that had confused him. He'd been looking into it, and then threatened. There had been no real way to tell how long the note had been there; it might have been pinned there the night before, even when Jun actually checked in. So…he'd left it up on the wall? Implausible, but possible, considering Jun's "Come at me, bro" attitude towards life.

So if the note had been a warning, then what had the heroin been? It had probably been dissolved in water, enough pure heroin to cause Jun Takayama's body to go into shock, an overdose that would have killed him if it had had a chance. He'd been fully dressed, so he had to have consumed it either the night before the stabbing (unlikely; it would have killed him if it had been that long before) or right at the beginning of the day. Which meant a glass of water. But none of the glasses had had anything on them other than water, not even blood.

How had he drunk it, then? Had someone given him a glass of water that morning and then taken it away with them? That made no sense. Besides, there'd been no indication he'd seen anyone that morning, and if there'd been a communal breakfast like Amber said, and she hadn't seen anybody missing….

A take-away plate. It has to be. Something that could have been spiked, that Jun Takayama could have walked away with and disposed of without anyone knowing about it. Leftovers, maybe a water bottle. Hawkes had said he hadn't eaten much, so probably a glass of water or a water bottle, given to him by someone he had reason to trust.

I've come up with this theory before, though. There's absolutely no way to prove it. If it had been a water bottle, it's probably in a New York City garbage dump by now. Six weeks means no garbage bags left to dig through, no evidence left for us to trace. Danny probably walked right past it before finding that bloody knife. Which is another problem. The blood on that knife isn't in the system, so it can't be Michael Firachenzo's; there had been no equivalent wounds on any of the con-goers, either. So did it have any relation to our case at all?

Of course, I could just be making all this up in my head. I've thought about this case too much for it to not start turning around in circles, tried on too many theories for any of them to sound logical anymore. I press a sofa pillow into my face and scream as loud as I can. _Dammit_. I used to be so good at this!

In essence, it all boils down to one thing. We _have _to get a warrant to explore Sydney Hardwoode's apartment. And if there's nothing there, then we are completely and royally screwed.

The key rattles in the lock. Aiden's home early, for once. Considering she just wrapped up a case today, I'm not surprised; she's probably ditched paperwork to come back here and actually relax, for once. I lift a hand when she steps over the threshold. "Hey."

"Hey." Her smile is tired. Aiden dumps her purse on the counter, and goes to put her badge, wallet, and gun on her bedside table like always. By the time she comes back down the hall, I've turned off the TV and put my computer back where it goes, tucking the blanket in around my legs again. It's cold outside. Aiden slumps onto the other end of the couch, and tucks her toes under the blanket. "You okay?"

"I'm _exhausted_." One eye cracks open, and she peers at me down her nose. "I didn't think you'd be back this early."

"I didn't think _you'd_ be back this early."

"You know, I've kinda forgotten what it's like to be back in the apartment before midnight." Her eyes roam around the living room, taking in TV, DVD player, photos, books, the kitchenette. "It's nice to see it all in daylight."

"Memorize it, 'cause it's gonna snow soon and then you won't see the sun at all." Aiden snorts a bit, but she doesn't deny it. I unfold the other half of the blanket and offer it to her, waiting until she's tucked in and her eyes are half-lidded before asking, "Did you hear from Regina again?"

"Nah. She said it was an emergency appointment with her lawyer. She'd try to be by tonight, if she can." Aiden's not too hopeful, though. I can see it in her eyes. "I don't know how to help her if she keeps cutting herself off, Bridget, I really don't."

"Regina's having a hard time. You know that better than I do. Sometimes the only way to help someone is to let them work through things on their own." And sometimes people can't be helped at all. But that's something I don't want to even think, let alone say.

"I know that, but it's…" She struggles for the word. "I want to help her but I don't know how and it's pissin' me off."

"We'll figure it out, Aid." I have to believe that. Regina's my friend too. If this doesn't end happily…I don't want to think about it. "We'll just take it a step at a time. All right? We'll get a hold of Regina tomorrow, make sure she's all right, but for now, give her some space."

"I know. That's what I was plannin'." She takes a deep breath, and then lets it out slowly. "You heard about my case today, how's yours goin'?"

"Sticky. You know how many times I've been over the evidence?"

"A thousand times?"

"Try ten thousand. I still have no idea. There's too much evidence and not enough motive or means, no one without an alibi, no one we can pull in a warrant against, nothing. It's been six weeks, Aid. Our chances of catching this guy are maybe one in a million by now." It's the first time I've really talked about this case with anyone other than Flack. It feels like lines for a play that I've rehearsed too many times. "I just…forget it."

Aiden settles in, tilting her head in a question, and cocks an eyebrow. "Lay it on me, Carter. Maybe talkin' about it will help."

I'm not getting out of it now. I go over everything again, talking until my throat feels sore. Aiden stays quiet through all of it, and when I'm done, makes a pinching motion with her fingers. I hand her the file, and she starts sorting through the pictures. "How'd he die, anyway?"

"The stab wounds were…Hawkes called them frenzied. Six of them at random. The knife clipped the superior vena cava, and severed three other arteries, in the leg, arm, and chest; he would have bled out pretty quickly. But the actual cause of death was the fall. It broke a lot of bones, crushed his skull." I shake my head. "This guy could've died three different ways. Can't imagine what it felt like."

"They nicked arteries?" When I nod, Aiden points at the screen. "There's not enough blood at the scene for that. Look at the bed. It should be covered all over, arterial spray, the works, but there's only that."

"Adam found evidence of a lot of blood in the bathtub. They probably stabbed him there." I roll the pen between my fingers. "How the hell did blood get on the bed? There wasn't any on the floor."

"It was definitely blood?"

"Jun Takayama's blood, yeah, fresh enough to have been from the murder. The only way it could have ended up there is if they stabbed him once there and then moved him to the bathtub, or a secondary transfer from the killer."

"The killer jumped on the bed after stabbing Jun Takayama? But you said the body was dumped over the side. And they had to have cleaned up the bathtub, because it says here someone bleached it. A crappy job, but it was bleached and wiped down. Whatever happened, it happened _fast_. Your timeline's airtight, Bridge. Why would the killer stop to take a rest in the middle of it?"

It's another problem, but not one I'm thinking about right now. Something's clicked together in the back of my head. "And the timeline was too short for anyone to change after killing Jun Takayama."

"Sorry?"

"Aiden, whoever did it would have had blood _all over them_." It's so simple. I can't believe I didn't think of it before now. "It _couldn't_ have been anyone at the convention because none of them had a chance to change by the time Jun Takayama's body was discovered. They were all accounted for. Which means the person who threw Takayama off the ledge _wasn't a part of the convention at all._"

"'sfar as I can tell, that doesn't help you all that much. I mean, all of this crap—" She gestures to the file, eyebrows raised. "You're swimmin' in evidence, Bridget. Who's the CSI on this case, anyway?"

"Adam's a lab tech, not a CSI. Danny helped with collection, but he has too many cases, he left it to us." God, I should have noticed this ages ago. "We're not looking at anyone in the convention. As light as Takayama was, you can't pick up a body that's bleeding that heavily and throw him off a balcony without getting soaked in it. And you can't clean up a room and wreck all that glass without having at least one accomplice."

"So there was more than one assailant?"

"No, the knife wounds all match. Same guy stabbed him six times. He just had at least one person to help him clean up after himself." No CCTV cameras inside the hotel, but we hadn't checked the street cameras. We'd assumed that the killer was still in the building when we learned about the convention, but he might have gone right out the back door. That'd mean knowledge of the hotel, ways to get out unseen while covered in blood…God. We never looked too closely at the employees. We didn't suspect them. "Aiden, at least one of these guys might still be working at the hotel."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

Now, whether Bridget is actually right remains to be seen...

This chapter practically wrote itself. I was very surprised, especially considering I meant to be working on _Domina Esques._ Oh, well.

**Thorne Lockheart: **Aww, thanks, sweetie! Hopefully it'll even out now that the first day is over and done with. ;_; That's what I'm hoping, anyway.

**AccidentalNaps:** / Thank you so much, love! Your review had me smiling all day.


	22. Snowday

**1.22**

In theory, it all works out perfectly. In practice, not so much. Adam swears that if I can get him the shoes, shirt, and blade of the guy who stabbed Jun, we can nail this guy, but that's the tricky part: the likelihood of anyone being stupid enough to leave evidence behind after six weeks of thought and debate is miniscule to the nth degree. There won't be any blood left on them, no trace of them in the room; unless I can find bloodstains on their shoes and in their shirts, which they've probably thrown away by now, we're out of luck, and the chances of any of these guys getting prosecuted – if they even exist and I haven't made it all up in my head – is even less.

Flack calls while I'm on my run with a bombshell of his own. "Mike Firachenzo is in custody, and he's talkin'."

I can't speak for a moment. I slow to a stop on the corner of Lafayette and Worth, trying not to pant too much, wondering if I've misheard him. "…You're joking."

"Not even. We caught him in a bar over on 93rd last night at about two in the morning, and he's been cryin' wolf ever since. He's in there tellin' Danny his life story. But he's been a bit less than forthcoming when it comes to Jun Takayama. _Swears_ he didn't kill the guy, but he knows who did, and he wants a protection agreement before he even thinks about telling us who it is."

This might just be the break we're hoping for. As much as I hate to say it, our lack of relevant physical evidence – murder weapons, bloody shirts, the works – is making confessions one of the only hard-and-fast pieces of testimony that we can rely on. "Can we do that?"

"We're gonna damn well try." He sounds grim. "You have time to come down and hear what he has to say?"

"I haven't heard from Kaile – she said she was gonna call me – so maybe. Is she there?"

"Not yet." It's pretty early, after all. I brush my sweaty bangs out of my face, trying to catch my breath. "You okay, Doc?"

"Yeah, you just caught me on my run." I start walking back the way I came, fingering the cap of my water bottle. "I'll come in. I'd probably be meeting her there anyway." And even though I've promised to work with Detective Maka on her case, I really, really, _really_ want to hear what Mike Firachenzo has to say. _Calm down, girl. Danny will be taping it. You can hear it from the very beginning if they're done by the time you get there. _"Which interview room?"

"Three. Stella helped collar him, she'll meet you at the desk."

"I'll be over as soon as I can."

I'm too sweaty to be seen, so I take a five minute shower and head for the subway with my hair still leaving wet patches on my shoulders. It's completely out of control by the time I walk into the precinct; usually the curls take at least twenty minutes of work in the morning to be manageable, but I haven't bothered today, and when I catch a glimpse of it in the window, I wince. I look like I have a briar patch growing wild on my head.

Stella notices. Her eyebrows go up. "You okay, Bridget?"

"Fast start this morning." Her mouth quirks in sympathy – her hair is curlier than mine, and I'm sure she's had similar days – and she turns back to the window as I work a hairband off my wrist and gather up the riot as best I can. "How's it going?"

"Interestingly." She hands me the booking photo. It's definitely the Mike Firachenzo from Jun Takayama's MySpace page; he's smaller than I anticipated, the hair's longer, and there's a new pimple scar on his right temple, but it's most definitely the same guy. "He's lawyered up and demanding a protection agreement. Mac's on with the DA's office now. Hopefully we should hear something within the hour. Until then, he's not talking."

"Who's the lawyer?" If it's Barry McCaffery, I'm going to kick a wall.

"Don't know her. Never met her before. Business card says her name's Alice Chen. She seems sympathetic to the cause, though." It's nice to know there might be at least one lawyer on our side here. I hand the photograph back to Stella, and she tucks it back into her copy of the case file. The whole of the crime lab must be in on this one by now. "This way."

Interview room three is closer to the front of the precinct than the frigid concrete icebox of four. Danny's inside, silent and stony. Across the table sits Mike Firachenzo: late twenties, greasy dark hair, hooked nose, permanent scowl. He's the perfect mug shot for any precinct in the nation. I don't understand what the attraction was for Sydney Hardwoode. Then again, all sorts of people have weird types. Who knew what she'd been doing with Mike Firachenzo?

"Has he said anything about Jun?"

"Other than he knows who killed him? No. He swears he didn't stab him _or _poison him, but other than that—" She shrugs. "He claims to know something about the heroin, too, but that's something else he's keeping quiet about."

"Do we have a warrant to search his house?"

"And his car, and any other holdings he might have under his name. Like, say, a storage unit over in Washington Heights." She flashes an envelope at me. "I'm heading to check those out as soon as I get the okay from Mac. You wanna come?"

"I'm going to Bellevue after this, probably, but thanks."

"I'll let you know what I find, okay?" She waits until I nod before vanishing back out the door of the observation room. It's smaller than the one for interview room four; when she shuts the door, I have to close my eyes and breathe for a long moment to keep my heart from thudding up into my throat. Panic is a clenched knot in my stomach. Damn, damn, damn. This is _not _the time to have a claustrophobic attack. It really is not.

Still, I have to keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady. My shoulder touches the wall. It's solid, dependable. In and out, lungs working, heart beating. _Breathe_. After a moment, I can open my eyes. I have to be sure to stare into the interview room, though. Looking anywhere else, at least while I'm alone, won't end so well. I'd rather not faint on duty.

"How much longer?" It's Mike. His voice has a high whining quality, like a mosquito, and there's a lilt to it that I usually only hear on the California coast. "That guy left to get the stuff like three hours ago."

"These things take time, Mikey," says Danny, and he shifts in his seat, putting his hands behind his head. "Keep your pants on, won't be much longer."

"You don't get it, man. If I don't get out of here soon, they're gonna think I narced on them." He leans forward and whispers it, and his dread is real, even if he ends up lying about all the rest. "They'll _kill _me."

"Which will be an enormous loss to the NYPD, I'm absolutely sure." Danny ignores Alice Chen's glare. "It won't be much longer."

It isn't. Within thirty seconds, as if by magic, Flack opens the door, and holds up a file that is clearly labeled with Mac's handwriting. He offers a copy to Chen. "There. All of it. In print. He just needs to sign, and then he's done."

"All the required specifications were met?"

"Negation of charges from all crimes committed within the past three years, to a certain level."

"A certain level?"

"He won't be acquitted for murder—"

"I didn't kill anybody!" Mike explodes, but he quiets down as soon as Flack gives him one of The Looks. Then Flack clears his throat, and continues.

"First- or second-degree murder are off the table. Manslaughter…now, that one's a little iffy. You can play to your greasy lawyer's heart's content with manslaughter, but murder is somethin' we're not willing to offer. Understand?"

Alice Chen deliberates. She looks over the file. The whole room seems to be twirling on a fraying string. Then she looks up, and takes off her reading glasses. "Completely, Detective."

Trust Mac to leave a perfect loophole. I cross my fingers as Chen turns to Michael Firachenzo, and they start to talk in low, intense voices. I don't bother to listen, not to their voices anyway. Michael Firachenzo is absolutely petrified. It's as though it's spraypainted across his face in big yellow letters. _I am terrified_. On the other side of the desk, Flack glances at the two-way mirror, and nods a bit; Stella must have told him that I'm back here. I twist a curl around my finger and wait for the inevitable. Finally, Firachenzo signs the agreement, and passes it over to Danny, who gives it to Flack. Danny lifts an eyebrow.

"Well?"

Firachenzo hesitates. He squirms. Then he swallows, and he says, "I didn't stab the bitch."

Flack starts pacing. Alice Chen is sitting back now, quiet, thoughtful. After all, her client has his protection. He has his deal. Her work is done here. "I didn't stab her. I cleaned everything up afterwards, but you gotta believe me. I _didn't _kill her."

"Her?"

"The crossdresser." He throws his hands in the air. "The Japanese girl, the one that Syd was…I don't know what they were doing, it creeped me the hell out and yeah, okay, I didn't like the bitch, but I didn't…I didn't kill her."

"You have any proof of that? _Mikey_?" Damn. I've forgotten how cold his eyes get when he gets pissed. Flack stops, leans forward, pressing his hands lightly against the tabletop. "'cause right now, the only thing I have is your word about that, and that paper that you just signed, that only protects you if you give me the truth. The _whole _truth. All of it. Start to finish. Otherwise?" He snaps his fingers. "You're outta here."

"But I'm tellin' the truth!"

"Prove it, then. Names. Dates. Locations. The whole damn thing. I'm sure Miss Chen here can tell you what happens to people who don't hold up their end of the deal."

"Okay, okay, God." He bites his thumbnail. "Look. Syd told the bitch about the drugs, okay?"

"What drugs, Mikey?"

"We hold onto some packages for some guys sometimes, okay? Mostly heroin. I don't sell anymore, I just…keep an eye on it. Cheap money. Easy, you know. And – and Syd told this psycho about it, or she found out or somethin', I don't know, but she wanted Syd to go to the cops. I was…" He colors a bit. "My boss had me put some cameras in the apartment, y'know, to keep an eye on the goods? I heard it all, everything." Michael looks desperately from Flack to Alice Chen and back again, waiting for sympathy. "They were gonna go to the _cops_!"

"So stabbing the guy six times and throwing him off a seventeenth storey balcony is your solution?"

"I keep tellin' ya, I _didn't_ kill her!" He leans forward, puts his head on the table, and moans. "It wasn't _me_. I just left the note, okay? I just left the note. I didn't do…anything else."

"Just the note." Flack scoffs. "Where are the drugs now, Mikey? Still in the apartment?"

"I don't know, how the hell am I supposed to know? M'boss had 'em moved after what happened in the hotel."

"What happened in the hotel, Mikey?"

Michael locks his hands behind his neck. He shakes his head once or twice, takes a deep breath, and stares at the ceiling. Flack shoves the agreement across the table. Papers go flying. "This? This has a time limit, _Mikey_. Talk or it runs out."

"_Okay_!" He takes a deep breath, shakes his head once or twice more. "The boss told us—"

"Us?"

"Me and this other dude, Franklin. I don't know his last name. He works at the hotel. Sometimes – sometimes we take the shipments through the Dunkirk, okay? The boss knows the people who own the place, y'know, and he can take the heroin through empty hotel rooms, have it shipped all over the country." Michael takes a breath. "The boss told us which room the bitch was in, said we had to take care of it."

"Take care of it how?"

"Get rid of the problem." He's sweating up a storm, eyes flickering around the room. You'd have to be blind, deaf, and noseless to not tell how panicked he is. He's terrified, and we're still not even sure why. "So – so we went upstairs, but when we get there, the bitch ain't breathin'. She's dead already, okay? And – and Franklin's all for leavin' her there, 'cause hey, problem's done, all solved, and then Syd comes in and – and she goes _nuts_. Pulls a blade outta nowhere, tries to cut my throat." He yanks down the collar of his shirt, and sure enough, there's a healing gash lying jagged and open on his collarbone. We'll have to ask Hawkes to tell us how old it is, but it looks about six weeks old to me. I can't imagine how it must have felt like fresh. "Franklin hits her, she goes down, and we put her in the closet. You know. In the room. Then Franklin sees the knife and, you know, he gets an idea."

"An idea to stab a supposedly dead body?"

"We thought – you know, it might…it might lead away from us, you know? Make the cops look someplace else. And the bitch was dead, we weren't doin' nothing wrong."

Flack pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing. Michael doesn't notice. "So Franklin has his knife, you know, and I'm covering up the cut because I know how you guys operate, you use blood and hair and crap against _everyone_, so I have a washcloth over my shoulder, and Franklin carries the body into the bathroom and…well, he stabs it. I've never seen a dead body bleed so much in my life."

This guy is either criminally stupid enough to think that we'll swallow this, or criminally stupid enough to think that he's telling us the truth. Mike clears his throat. "Then…then Franklin wraps her up, you know, in a sheet, to keep blood from dripping on the floor, and I help him throw her over the side. Boss wanted us to make a statement," he adds defensively, at Flack's disgusted look. "So we did."

"Where'd you put the sheet?"

"We weighed it down and threw it in the East River."

Irretrievable, then. "Knife?"

"Franklin has it. It's his favorite knife," he says, when Flack's eyebrows go up. "I swear to you, he kept it."

So if some deity decides to give us a hell of a lot of luck, we might find blood on the blade. At the very least we can match it to the wound. That, along with a confession like this one…People have been convicted with less.

Of course, people have also managed to get off with a lot more. I grit my teeth and keep watching.

"What about the glass?"

"What _about_ the glass?"

"The place was a wreck, Mikey. You tellin' me you didn't take a bat to the mirror, have a little fun after the job was finished?"

"No! No, of course not! I'm not _stupid_."

"Coulda fooled me."

"Danny." Flack makes a face. "Be nice to the guy. Clearly he's been havin' _such_ a hard time."

Alice Chen's voice is pure ice. "Might I remind you, gentlemen, that my client agreed to come in here and give you a statement—"

"Agreed!" Danny squawks. "Agreed! I had to chase him down three alleys! _And _tried to climb a fence; I tore my best pair of pants trying to keep up with his ass!"

"_Agreed_," she repeats. "This sort of behavior is out of line and completely unnecessary. Keep your comments to yourselves."

"Fine. We'll try not to hurt his feelings," Flack says, and Chen sniffs, mollified. "Now, there was a patch of blood on the bed, Takayama's blood. Wanna tell us how it ended up there?"

Mike swallows. "Franklin – Franklin was gonna stab her there. He did, once. But, you know, if he had we…we might've left tracks, or somethin', you know? So – so I made him move her. To the bathroom. The tub, I mean."

"Easier to clean up, am I right or am I right?" Danny says. Michael starts to grin at him, and then he realizes that it's not a compliment. He scowls.

"No call to be so harsh, man."

I see it happen. Flack's temper snapping. He goes dangerously still, and it's as though the whole place has lost air. Even Mike Firachenzo shuts up, and looks at him with enormous eyes. "Harsh? You think _this _is harsh? Harsh is what happens when you skip out on a parking ticket, Firachenzo. _This _is not harsh. You wanna know what it is? It's brutal."

"I didn't do nothin', man—"

"Shut up." Mike's jaw snaps closed with an audible click. "Brutal is taking the body of a man who'd been poisoned with heroin – enough to drive him into a lethal overdose, by the way – and watch as your partner stabs him to death. Brutal is telling your partner to put the body in the bathtub. Brutal is cleaning up afterwards without giving a damn. _Brutal_ is throwing the body over the side of a seventeenth storey balcony _while Takayama was still alive_."

"I didn't." Mike Firachenzo's almost gray. "I didn't kill her, I didn't kill her!"

"This agreement, Firachenzo?" Flack holds up the file. "It protects you from basically anything. Manslaughter. Trafficking. Smuggling. Whores. Even your damn drug sales. But the one thing that isn't in here, the one thing that we didn't agree to forgive and forget? Murder. And you've committed it."

"Detective Flack, my client—"

"Your _client_ traveled to the Dunkirk Hotel on express orders from his dealer, whoever the hell he is, to murder Jun Takayama. Whatever actually happened, he went there with the intention to murder. He's confessed to it. See here?" He opens the file, thrusts it at her, his finger on the ME's report. "COD? Extensive blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Shattered spine. Takayama was _thrown_ to his death, Miss Chen, and even if this son of a bitch never held the knife or tried to poison him, he murdered Jun Takayama just the same. And so help me, I will do everything in my power to make sure he's punished for that, even if it means dragging him to Sing-Sing myself."

There's a long, dead moment of silence. Alice Chen's eyes flicker from Flack, to the ME's report, to Danny, to Firachenzo, who's holding his head in his hands. Then she nods, slowly. "I'll review the agreement, Detective. Thank you very much. I apologize for wasting your time."

"Forgive me if I don't return it," Flack says, and then he gathers his papers and stalks out of the interview room. I can't move for a moment – we caught him, we _caught _him, and he's confessed, right on tape, we _did it_ – and then I realize that Danny's putting the cuffs on Firachenzo and I haven't moved since – well, since a while. My hands are clenched into fists so tight my fingers ache. This is enough. This is enough to get into Sydney Hardwoode's apartment. This is enough for a warrant against Franklin Whoever-He-Is, against the Dunkirk. This is enough to keep Mike Firachenzo and pump him dry, get every name out of him, track down his boss and throw the bastard into jail for the rest of his life. It's about as close to perfect as we're going to get, and I should be happier. But I'm not.

I turn, and get out of the observation room before the walls can crush me into nothing.

Flack isn't at his desk. The papers are, sure, but he isn't. He's not upstairs, either, and he's not in the staff room. It takes a long time sitting and thinking before I finally remember the park, and I slip my shoes back on to head down Mulberry Street. Sure enough, there he is on the bench, leaning his head back against the railing, not paying attention; his tie is loose around his throat, for once, and his eyes are closed. I pause on the corner, and then slip into the nearest coffee shop, keeping my eye on him as best I can through the window and around a corner. It only takes a few minutes, and he hasn't moved a muscle by the time I walk back to him, and tap his foot with my shoe. "Hey."

One eye cracks. Then both. He sits up. "Doc."

"Here." The cup's still sizzling against my fingers. "Two sugars, no cream, right?"

He blinks. "How—"

"You know how many times I've seen you make coffee by now? Please." His fingers brush against mine when he takes the cup. They're cold. It's only then I realize he came out here without gloves or a jacket or anything, just right out of the precinct in nothing but his suit, and I scowl. "Don't tell me that bastard pissed you off so much you forgot the most basic defense against cold."

"What?" He really must be out of it. Then again, working all night does that to you. I pinch his sleeve.

"A coat, Flack. A coat. You're gonna lose your fingers."

"It's not that cold." Still, he wraps both hands around the cup and blows before taking a sip.

"Says you. I'm freezing my ass off out here." And I'm the one in a heavy coat and a scarf. "I don't think people were meant to survive in these sorts of conditions."

"And they're meant to survive in a desert?"

"Touché." I drop down onto the bench next to him and sip at my own coffee. There's a burst of vanilla over my tongue; they've added one shot too many. Dammit. "You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He says, blasé, and I don't push it. After all, this is his private place. I'm probably intruding anyway. "Heard from Kaile yet?"

"No." Then again, it's only eight-thirty in the morning. I didn't expect to hear from her until at least nine o'clock. "Heard from Stella?"

"Processing'll take a while. We have some time." He closes his eyes again, and runs his thumb around the lid on his coffee cup. "Thanks for comin' down, Doc."

"Thanks for inviting me." He didn't have to. After all, the case had gone pretty stagnant. Not to mention the fact that I'm not actually working for the NYPD in a more-than-consultant capacity. Kaile was right; it's way more than unorthodox for Flack to cart me around all the time, especially considering his opinion on psychology. I don't object to it, but sometimes I have to wonder why he does it. And the tiny Gina that seems to have taken up residence in my head has the entirely wrong idea about it all. I sigh, and take another sip of coffee. "The trial for this one is gonna be hell. He's gonna plead not guilty and cite lack of knowledge and it might get sticky and…urgh."

He looks amused. "I don't think Mac's gonna make you go to a trial, Doc."

"Yeah, but it's not Mac who'll be deciding." It'll be people like McCaffery and Chen. One of the perks of working with the police department – observing all the cases you work on, right down to the bitter end. I'll have to go to a trial, and I'll hate it, but then it'll be over, and I won't have to deal with it anymore.

Ah, the law. One half so satisfying, the other half nothing but a big old pile of crap. And yet I missed it so much.

"So?" Flack asks, and I nearly spill my coffee down my jeans in surprise. "How's it going?"

"How's what going?"

"Living with Aiden. How's it going?"

"Okay." I turn the cup in my hands. "I mean, Aiden's like my sister, so we don't always get along, but it's always been that way. We're both kind of used to it."

"Right, CUNY." Somehow, I'm not surprised he knows. "Transition wasn't too bad, then?"

"Other than the fact she likes to leave the TV on all night, it's actually been kind of soothing." I turn a bit, trying to hide a smile. "Why the interest?"

The tips of his ears are pink. I'm not sure if it's from the cold or from embarrassment, but I like to think it's the latter. Flack coughs. "Hey, I work with both of you. If somethin's wrong, it's probably gonna fall on my head first."

"So better safe than sorry."

"Bingo."

I can't help it. I punch him lightly in the shoulder. Flack grunts. "What the hell, Doc?"

"Nothing, You're just a big softie."

He turns prim. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar." I hide a smile in my coffee, and turn back to the street. It's past the start of business hours now, and the streets are crawling with people, even in this cold. A couple of tourists pass by, looking confusedly at a map. Lost on their way to Times Square, maybe. It's where all the tourists want to go for some reason. I cuddle deeper into my coat and breathe in the steam coming from my coffee cup. Across the road, a college-age guy is setting up an electric keyboard outside of a music store. He's wearing the store logo on his shirt, so probably an attention grabber. He settles, and then flexes his fingers before starting in on God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. I've forgotten what Christmastime in the city feels like. Last year I was cooped up in the Safe House worrying if some of the kids would come back for the night, or if they'd freeze in some alley, or if we'd be able to scrounge enough food from churches and hospitals to make a decent Christmas dinner. Now, there's nothing. Well, except Regina's trial. But that's on Saturday, not today. Today is just…December.

And for some reason, I'm sitting here with Flack.

He's quiet again, sitting with his legs stretched out into the middle of the sidewalk, so pedestrians have to either hop over or scoot around his ankles to get by. Thankfully there aren't a lot of pedestrians on this side of the road. After all, the only place worth getting to on this side is the park, and since it's so cold, most moms are keeping their kids inside. There are a few screamers on the swing-set, though. They sound like Rosario, when she'd been small enough to shriek at flying seven feet off the ground. If I close my eyes and imagine the cold away, I could be back in Tucson for Christmas.

"There used to be a toy store." I open my eyes. Flack's staring across the street at a bodega with a sign in the window that reads _SOUVENIRS HERE._ "In that building. It closed right before 9/11. But it was there for forever, feels like."

"What happened to it?"

"I think it just…died. The guy who managed it was really old. Prob'ly didn't have anyone to inherit it after he passed away. It was called Landslide, or something. Landmine. The Toy Landfill. That's what it was." The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. "I remember when we were kids, and my dad used to take us into the city, my sister'd always beg him to go into _that_ toy store. Who knows why. I think she liked the models. There were always airplane models," he says, pointing upwards with one finger. "Hangin' from the ceiling. She adored it. Said she wanted to be a pilot, actually."

"What about you?"

"Nah." He shrugs. "I was always more of a ground-lover. Sam, though…she loved it there."

"Where is she now?" I ask. "Your sister."

"She lives in Hamilton Heights. Works in a bar over there." He looks the slightest bit uncomfortable with the thought. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"Ah." I don't ask anything more. When I crack the lid off of my coffee cup, steam escapes into the air. "It's nice," I add, and Flack turns, opening his eyes again, brows lifted in a question. "This place. I don't know. Despite the shrieking babies, it's…it's soothing."

His smile catches me by surprise. "Glad you like it, Doc."

Damn his eyes. They're too intense to leave anyone healthy. I can only hold his gaze for a few seconds before I have to look away, or make a complete and utter fool out of myself. "So if you weren't pissed off, why'd you rush out here, Flack? I mean, this place has a kind of vibe to it. The only reasons I can think of for you to come out here without a coat is if you want to cool off, or if you want to think. Or maybe both."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he tucks his feet under the bench to let a woman with a stroller go past, and says, "Dunno. I just feel like there's somethin' weird about Firachenzo's story."

"Like what?"

"Some of it didn't seem to add up, is all." He says it in a hesitant sort of way, as though he's trying to second-guess himself. "It bothered me."

"We could interview him again?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm prob'ly imagining it anyway. It just…it feels like it wrapped up too neat, that's all."

"Do you think he's lying about who did it?"

"No, I think he believed he didn't kill Takayama."

"Doesn't mean he didn't." I pause. "Go with your instincts, Flack. They're good. If you want to review something, then review it. We want all of these sons of bitches in jail, yeah?"

He shrugs an agreement and thinks for a few minutes, considering. Then an impish look flickers over his face. "You think my instincts are good, huh?"

"Shut up, Flack."

"C'mon. What'd you call me way back when? Bossman."

"I am _not _calling you 'bossman,' Flack."

"Spoilsport."

Something cold touches the tip of my nose. The chill of it makes me jump. I hold out my hand, and another flake lands on my palm, resting there only for a second before melting away into nothing. Snow. "It's snowing," I say, and when I look up, it starts coming down faster. In seconds, Flack has a dusting of sugary snow on his dark hair, and I stand, a laugh burbling in my stomach. "Flack, it's _snowing_."

"It snows pretty often here in the wintertime, Doc."

I can't quite explain it. I've been in the city before during a snow, of course, but I've never, in my life, been outside when it had started to fall. Not even when I'd been small, and my family and I had gone up to Mount Lemmon to make snowmen in the wintertime. Never.

I peel off my gloves and hold out both hands. More flakes. They're cool tickles against my skin, and I laugh at it, the strangeness of it. _Snow_. Behind me, Flack stands up too, and suddenly I can feel him right there at my shoulder as we both tilt our heads back and look at the sky. The snow keeps falling, big fat flakes that are sticking to the sidewalk. In the park, a few of the girls squeal in delight.

There's a sudden tug on my sleeve. Flack. The mischief has vanished; I can feel my heart squeezing in a not exactly unpleasant way as he stands quite still, watching me carefully and quietly until my lungs go tight, and I can't quite get a full breath. Then he lets go, hand falling back to his side.

"Thanks, Doc. For coming out here."

The words are weighted differently this time. It _means _something different this time. I clear my throat.

"You're welcome, Flack."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

My first week as a teacher is over. I think it went well. Seven more to go. *crosses fingers*

**Thorne Lockheart: **Awww, thank you, darlin'. That helped, believe me. :) It seems the killers have been revealed...though whether the story is over, I'm afraid I can't say. ;) Have fun on your vacation, love!

**yaba: **Bridget's quirkiness is possibly what makes her so much fun to write. XD It's also why I ship them so. Damn. Much. Right. Now. Urgh.

**CSIGetteBlue: **Some people are just having bad days. All the others, they're just McCafferys. XDDD


	23. Deja Vu

**1.23**

He drops back behind Bridget as they head back into the precinct, trying to school his features into something serious and work-like and failing dismally, and he's never been quite so grateful to Captain Gerrard for refusing to come in early, because he's certain that if the Captain had spotted him at that moment, he'd get kicked in the ass on the way out the door.

The fact that he still really wants to grab Bridget by the wrist, pull her around, and kiss her doesn't help matters.

Flack waits until Aiden comes to claim her before settling at his desk again, and cracking his knuckles. It's a habit he's had since he was thirteen, and it's driven his whole family crazy more times than he can count, but for some inexplicable reason, sometimes it's soothing. It helps his mind settle.

At least, it does most of the time. Today, it doesn't seem to be doing much of anything. He should be getting back to the conundrum of Michael Firachenzo, considering how to best proceed, but his thoughts are about as far from that idea as they can possibly be without hovering over Australia. He pops one thumb, and then the other, and then he puts his headphones on, muting the dull roar of the precinct with Metallica, and returns to the case file. He's vibrating, though, constantly distracted, and it only takes a few minutes for him to give up, close the folder again, and turn to his computer instead.

Detectives aren't supposed to have more-than-professional relationships with consultants. It's something he's been considering a lot lately. It's not just between detectives and consultants, either. Most members of the NYPD are discouraged from having more-than-friendly relationships with colleagues. Internal Affairs doesn't have a strict policy against it, per se, but it's highly frowned upon. After all, as much as some like to pretend otherwise, the job can be dangerous. Losing one uniform in a shoot-out shouldn't mean losing another to sick leave, or counseling, or to resignation altogether. It's harsh, but he's always thought it made good sense. He's never had a reason to go against it before now, either.

He's really not good at this tension thing. In the past, he's never had a problem asking a woman out, and if this was any other circumstance, he wouldn't be hesitating. He wouldn't be kicking himself every time he reached out to touch her. He wouldn't be searching for loopholes. He wouldn't be sitting here imagining what would happen if he just said _Screw it_, walked up to her, and kissed her, right now, in front of everyone, not caring who sees. Because he wants to, and it almost scares him how much he wants to.

And despite everything, the rules don't keep him from watching her, from touching her, from noticing the way her ears go red sometimes when she looks at him, from wondering how far down the freckles go. Because she does have freckles, a very interesting smattering of them over the bridge of her nose, behind her ear, and down her throat. He doesn't usually notice freckles, and hers are faded with time and the clouds of the city, but they especially stand out when she blushes. Come to think of it, that's probably how he noticed them in the first place.

Aiden catches his eye, follows his gaze. Her mouth quirks, just the slightest bit, before she sits on the edge of the nearest desk – Flack thinks it's Patton's – and shifts so that Bridget's turned away from him, and can't see it when Aiden lifts an eyebrow in his direction. Flack scowls at her. She winks, and then focuses on Bridget again, ignoring Patton's dirty look when he walks up to find her sitting on his desk. That's Aiden, all right. Besides, Patton likes her. He won't be grouchy once Aiden bats her eyelashes and promises to try and work his next case.

He glances back at Bridget. Her hair seems to have gone completely feral today, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. He finds himself thinking about what she would do if he walked up and took a strand of it in his hand. Then he shakes his head a few times and forces himself back to solitaire, putting a red jack on a black queen. He'd been very tempted back at the park, too. She'd been sitting close enough for him to be able to feel the heat of her, and smell her shampoo. Green apples and cinnamon. It's still haunting him.

Flack shakes his head, fiercely. He's refused to let himself think about any of this in any sort of rational way since he spoke to Aiden all those weeks ago, and if any of this was logical, six weeks of little interaction should have been enough to cure him of it. But it hasn't; if anything, it's done nothing but make it worse, and for God's sake, he doesn't break rules. He _doesn't._ He bends rules – Flack has bent more rules than he can count. Some rules are made to be bent. But he bent those rules for results, for the job. Gerrard may have cussed him out royally for it, but he hadn't been able to critique the closed cases that ended up on his desk because of it. This rule, though, this particular rule – he can't justify it with a perp in lockup and another solved case on his record. It's something he wants, not for the department, not for anyone other than himself.

In fact, the only reason he can think of as to why he hasn't flashed the metaphorical middle finger at Internal Affairs and gone for whoever the hell he wants is because of her.

_I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm._

He's stuck with three aces and no hope of getting at the fourth. Flack closes the solitaire game and forces his mind back to skeezy druggies. He picks up the phone, and keys out Danny's extension. After all, the testimony of Mike Firachenzo gives them more than enough ammo for a real warrant. "Yo. You have time for cracking open an apartment? I need it gutted for heroin residue."

"This for the Takayama case?" He asks, and when Flack tells him the details, he can nearly hear the vicious grin in Messer's voice. "Damn straight I have time. Call me when you get the warrant."

Right. The warrant. Flack hangs up, runs his thumb over the rim of the coffee cup, and then starts working.

* * *

><p>The 'banger in lockup is propositioning people again. I'm not sure if it's the same 'banger or a different one – to be totally honest, they all start to look the same after a while – but the Spanish is quite similar, and this time, Aiden's the one looking at him in disgust. I don't think she knows enough Spanish to understand what he's telling us to do, but the meaning's clear just the same. "Who's he talking to?"<p>

I shrug. "Both of us. And Pierce. But we're closer. So mostly us."

"You're popular lately, then, ah?"

"He likes you more, don't pin this on me. And only with assholes." First Silas Meyer, then Barry McCaffery; my luck with men seems to be holding strong. Oh, and Gerrard, but I don't count him. The 'banger starts going on about Pierce's piercings, and I cross my legs at the knee and ignore him. After all, what else is he going to do trapped in lockup all day, carve flowers into the wall? At least shouting expletives at cops who probably can't understand him keeps him from doing something worse. "I met Barry McCaffery yesterday."

Aiden grimaces in commiseration. Clearly, she's met him too. "You want a sexual harassment complaint filed?"

"I'll get the form later." No point in letting his crap go undetected. Even if it degenerates into nothing but a he said, she said argument, it still means the complaint will be on file, and if he does it to someone else, that'll raise some eyebrows. Jackass. "Did you have to file one?"

"You kiddin'? I've filed three. Don't go anywhere near that bastard if I can help it." She glances at me over the top of her file, and then goes back to flipping papers. "You and Flack were gone a while."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Absolutely nothing." Her lips twitch; she's fighting a smirk. "I just have a healthy interest in the situation, that's all."

It's then that the 'banger says something absolutely and utterly repulsive, and finally, I can't stand it anymore. I straighten. "Oy! Callete el hocico, cabron!"

He blows me a kiss, but he flinches when one of the unis – I think his name is Truby – passes by the bars of his cell and smacks them hard enough for the metal to sing. Grumbling, the 'banger retreats. I turn back to Aiden. "Try unhealthy. And whatever situation you've conjured up in that brain of yours, it's imaginary, so quit it."

"Fine." She flutters through her papers, and then gives me a coy look. "You know he's watchin' you right now, right?"

Dull heat flushes up into my cheeks, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I dig my nails into the nearest desk. "Bull."

"Nope. God's honest truth."

"Bull. He is not." I'm not going to look behind me. I will _not_. If I do, it'll just encourage her, and that's the last thing I need at the moment. "And nothing happened, Aiden. Drop it."

"Then you wanna tell me why you were grinning like an idiot when you two came back in?"

"I was _not_." It's petty and childish, but it's the only thing I can think to say. She's not bothering to hide her smile, now. Aiden closes her file and slings an arm around my shoulders in a rare burst of affection, and in the cage, the 'banger whistles.

"Shut up," Aiden snaps at him, and looks back at me again. "C'mon, you can tell me."

"There's nothing to tell." And honestly, by Aiden's standards, there really isn't. Still, I'm not stupid enough to lie to her. She knows me too well. She'd pick it out in a second. "To be honest, I'd rather not talk about it."

"So something _did_ happen."

"Shut up, Aiden."

"Make me."

"You are such a—"

"Dr. Carter." It's Kaile Maka. Her eyes flick between Aiden and I curiously, but she doesn't ask. "I didn't expect to see you here so early."

"Something came up." And that same something is why Flack's back at his desk, going over the witness list again. I clear my throat and pull away from Aiden, who collects her files and excuses herself without a word. "I would have called you, I just wasn't sure if you were awake."

"Perfectly all right." She wavers on the verge of speaking, and then thinks better of it. "I called Bellevue this morning; we're free to come in whenever is convenient for you. Is there any particular time you would prefer, or…?"

I glance back at the 'banger. He's finally gone quiet. A six-foot-three cop weighing roughly three hundred pounds sitting by the bars will do that. I look at Kaile again, and then say, "Well, now would be good, if that's all right by you."

She checks her watch. Then she smiles, slow and sharp, like a wolf. "I was hoping you'd say that. Come on. My car's outside."

The waiting room at Bellevue Psychiatry is clean and sterile and crammed to the gills with people. Some of them are hobos, looking for a place to stay; others are of richer backgrounds, looking nervously around, some with bandages on their wrists, others with handcuffs and police escorts. "The jumpers," Kaile says quietly in my ear as she navigates the maze of chairs, nodding to the secretary behind the counter. "We usually bring them here before taking them home. At least here they might be able to get some help."

"What about their families?"

"We call them once the doctors have a chance to check them out." She flashes her ID to the guard at the door, and he swipes a card to let us in. "And most of these people have already been admitted at least once. It's difficult to keep them all here, no matter how much help they need."

"I went straight from forensic psychology to dealing with teenagers in a halfway house." The door closes behind us, and cuts off the burbles and murmurs of the waiting room. Instead, far in the distance, I hear someone sobbing, and it drives the hairs up on my arms. I don't know what to think. This place feels more like a stereotype than anything else. "And I interned at another halfway house, so I never really…made it into a hospital."

"Which halfway house?"

"Danner Youth Crisis Center. The one down by Port Authority? I was there for a few months in my senior year of college." Before I'd ditched the city and gone back to Tucson to help Mayday with Rosie and my uncle Frank through the death of my aunt Delia. My parents had never factored much into the matter. "But it's a lot different than this place."

"I'll bet." We take the stairs up to the second floor, and Kaile turns down a passage, purposefully. She's been here before, knows where she's going. "The city wants Rosa out of here as soon as possible. It's expensive to keep her here, but until we know precisely where to take her and what she'll do once she gets out, we can't release her, either. DA's breathin' down my neck about expenses. Anything you can do would be really helpful at this point."

"I'll do what I can."

Dr. Markus Talon is a pudgy man in his early fifties, with smile lines around his mouth and very pale hair that has nothing to do with age. When Kaile knocks, he gets to his feet and gives her a warm handshake before glancing at me and asking, in a surprisingly wispy voice, "And who is this?"

I introduce myself, and hold out my hand. His handshake is a bit limpid, his hands plush and inkstained. Definitely not a surgeon. Worry lines crease in his forehead when he glances back at Kaile. "There's been no improvement in her condition, I'm afraid. Yesterday she broke a window when one of the interns left her unsupervised. We caught up with her halfway down the street and brought her back."

Kaile's eyebrows snap together. Her voice goes chilly. "You didn't tell me that when I called you yesterday."

"It happened about four hours after you called, Detective, I didn't want to bother you at dinner." Kaile grunts, and fingers something in her pocket. Probably her cigarette case. Still, Dr. Talon gives her a nervous look. "I'm sorry, should I have called you?"

"No, it's all right." It's not encouraging, but there wasn't much Kaile could have done about it. "I'd like to look in on her for a few minutes, if that's possible."

"Of course." He stands, locking his computer, and grabs a keycard from on top of his desk, gesturing towards the doors again. "She's two floors up. You don't mind if we take the elevator? My doctor's been nagging at me about blood pressure."

So either a panic attack for me or a heart attack for the esteemed Dr. Talon? I'll go with panic attack. I clench my fingers around the phone in my pocket and start my breathing exercises, in for seven, out for eleven, keeping half an ear on Kaile and the good doctor. "Other than her escape, how's she been doing?"

"No real improvement. I'm quite certain she knows exactly what she's doing, and she just doesn't want to talk." He sighs. "As much as I'd like to keep her here, Detective, there have been problems."

"I don't want her in a cell, Dr. Talon. Can't you do something?"

Dr. Talon makes an impatient noise, and swipes his card. The elevator doors open. I look at the mirrored walls, and take another breath. _Keep breathing._ "Neither do I, but at this point, there's not much I _can _do. Have you spoken to the DA's office?"

"Multiple times. She's pregnant, Doctor; I don't want her anywhere near the system."

"Neither do I, but if she continues to behave the way she has been..."

Kaile gives him a _I have no control here_ shrug and glances back at me. "Are you all right, Dr. Carter?"

"Fine." My voice is a bit higher than normal. Still, she doesn't know me well enough to tell. I keep my hands clenched in my pockets and stare at the opposite wall, which has one of those ocean prints in a large frame, until the elevator doors close and all I can see is my pasty face. Usually I don't look this pale. Unlike my parents, who both burn like lobsters in the sun, I've always been lucky enough to tan. Now I just look sick. "Just a little claustrophobic, is all."

Dr. Talon's eyes snap to me. "Really? I would have thought not."

I fight the urge to bite his head off. Just because I'm a psychologist doesn't mean I don't have problems of my own. "It'll pass. Can I ask how you were able to figure out her name, if she hasn't been giving you any other details?"

"One of the other girls told us. A Ukrainian girl, I think. She said Rosa had been pregnant when she'd been brought in, didn't tell anyone who the father was. She thought it might have been through rape, which wouldn't surprise me." The elevator shudders, and then starts to move up. _Only two floors, Bridget. Breathe._ God, I'm useless. "Natalia was sent back home a few days later, and nobody else seemed to know anything about Rosa. Newcomer, still high, you know the drill."

I do. As much as I hate it, I do. Girls taken off the street, tricked into Manhattan on the promise of work and a new life, sold into sexual slavery, kept placid with drugs, given diseases, despair, death, making little to no money, raped and beaten: everything that could possibly destroy a human being, all wrapped up into one simple word. _Trafficking._ The second that human beings stop making me sick is the second I stop working for the police. Dr. Talon continues: "We've been taking care of her as best we can, but there are…difficulties. She rarely eats, barely sleeps. She stares out the window most days. She throws things, gets violent. We've had to sedate her on several occasions. She tries to escape almost weekly. Though we thought she was getting better, until yesterday."

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Kaile steps aside, and lets me out first. I want to throw my arms around her. Even if the narrow corridors aren't much better, at least I don't see myself reflected on and on and on into infinity, and at least the walls aren't closing in. There are fewer windows along this floor, only doors with little squares of glass inlaid at eye level, some with latches, some without. We walk along for a while, and our footsteps echo along the walls. Talon's still talking. "She came in with chlamydia and a broken arm; we've treated both. Aside from her voicelessness, she's in perfect health."

"Rape kit?" I ask Kaile. After all, I only have Rosa's medical file, not the case file. Kaile shrugs.

"We have a sperm donor, but we haven't tested paternity. Rosa hasn't given permission. Besides, he's not in the system."

Of course he isn't. Dr. Talon stops in front of room 474, and glances in through the window. "She's awake."

Rosa Gonzalez is smaller than I expected her to be, thin aside from the slightest curve of her stomach; she's curled into her chair, which she's tugged as near to the little barred window as she can, and she's staring out into the street, her hair hanging in long, barely-clean ropes over her face. She must hear us, because she turns, and glares at the door before looking back at the world outside. Kaile gives me a helpless look. "That's usually all we can get from her. She's just…she's stubborn."

"I can't guarantee anything," I tell her again, and she nods, impatient.

"I know. I'd just appreciate it if you'd try."

Dr. Talon glances at me. "You're certain you want to go in? She doesn't…take to new people very well."

"I can handle myself." I've had chairs thrown at me before anyway. They're not that hard to dodge. "Besides, I'd rather try than not."

"All right." He swipes the card and waits for the light to turn green before turning the handle, looking back at me. "We'll stay out here and observe, if you don't mind. She usually refuses to interact at all if there's more than one person inside."

"Is she on anything?"

"Only prenatal vitamins. The sedative from last night should have worn off by now."

Well, that's encouraging. I glance back at Rosa. "Do you think she's an immigrant?"

"Possibly. She doesn't respond often enough for us to be able to tell."

"I'll try Spanish then."

Dr. Talon bites his lip. "I'm afraid I don't…"

"You can record it if you're worrying about what I'll say," I snap back at him, and curse myself. The elevator's put me in a worse mood than I thought. I look back to Kaile, and then I say, "Has anyone tried Spanish with her?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"It might get a different response, then. But I'll stick to English as best I can." After all, he's her assigned physician. He has a right to know what she says, if she even responds, which I doubt she will. But still. "If that's acceptable?"

"Perfectly." The door's locked itself again. Talon swipes the card once more, and then turns the knob. "Have at it, Dr. Carter."

The room smells like bad air freshener and stale sweat. No blood, though. Her wrists are bandageless. There's a fresh cut on her shoulder, maybe from the broken window, and a small Band-Aid on the inside of her elbow from the sedative, but otherwise she's spotless. She turns to the door again, and her eyes fix on me as I step over the threshold, balancing on my toes, waiting for her to toss something. She doesn't move. Instead, she crosses her arms protectively over her stomach, watching me with narrowed eyes. Judging from Talon's expression, it's a miracle she hasn't tried to kill me yet.

"Hola, Rosa."

Nothing. I stay near the door, and search for the camera. It's almost invisible in its nook up in the ceiling, and there are dents around it; it's probably something else she's chucked things at. After a breath of silence, I shut the door behind me, and stay against the wall. "Me llamo Bridget Carter. Como esta?"

Rosa says nothing. The scar on her jaw is much less livid now, fading into her brown skin, but it's still quite obvious, especially if you know it's there. She's very skinny, but not in an unhealthy way. She's been living in a hospital for a month after all. The baby bump isn't quite obvious yet; it could just be the remains of a healthy lunch.

"Lo siento, Rosa." I keep my face settled and smiling, crossing the room to sit in the chair opposite hers. Her eyes follow me the whole way, and she pulls her knees up against her chest, putting her legs between me and her stomach. My Spanish is so rusty it takes me a second or two to remember the right words, and even then, I'm pretty sure I have one or two things wrong. I need to start practicing again. "Tengo que utilizar el inglés. Los médicos no hablan español. Lo entiendes, sí?"

Silence. Aside from her eyes, she hasn't moved a single muscle since I sat down. She hasn't even blinked. Her whole demeanor is screaming. _Get away from me. _You'd have to be blind not to notice it. I glance back at the door, and I can see Kaile and Dr. Talon waiting behind the window, watching carefully. Kaile's worrying her lip between her teeth. I turn back to Rosa. "Rosa, I'm not a doctor, okay? I'm not a cop, either. Detective Maka brought me in because she wanted to see how you were doing and you've been throwing things at everyone else."

Her eyes flicker to the door, and fix on Kaile. Her mouth stays stubbornly closed. Even though I've never dealt with selective mutism – if this can even be called that; she's just keeping her mouth shut, she's not stuck with it – I can already tell this is pretty pointless. I sigh, and lean back in my chair, staring out the window. She has a good view of the street, even if it's only of cobbles and concrete and cars going up and down the block. People walk by Bellevue very quickly; some of them cast nervous glances up at the windows. The woman in the blue pantsuit could be anything from a stockbroker to a nanny to a magazine editor; whatever she's doing, she's making way more money than I am, judging by her shoes. I glance back at Rosa. "Do you make up stories for them? The people outside."

That makes her move. Slowly, she turns. Rosa stares for an indefinable moment; then she presses her face into her knees and begins to rock, back and forth, like a child caught alone in a thunderstorm. I want to reach out, put a hand on her shoulder, help her somehow, but something holds me back. After a minute or two of silence, I clear my throat, and start to talk. I don't expect her to respond; she's closed her ears to it all. But still, I chatter for a while, commenting on the cars, the hospital, the sliver of the outside world she can see beyond her windows. It's nothing but inane babble. After a while, I go silent, and sit there, waiting. The quiet seems to weigh me down, a solid mass that chokes the words away. Eventually, even that passes. I get to my feet, and brush the dust off the back of my pants.

"Lo siento, Rosa." She twitches, but doesn't lift her face. "It was nice to meet you."

She says nothing, and stays in her chair, cringing when the door clicks quietly shut behind me.

I find Kaile and Talon a few doors down, in a makeshift cafeteria filled with uniformed nurses and patients with wide pupils and slack faces. Some watch me as I pass. There's an old man ion the corner, playing chess with another patient, an anorexic-looking girl of about twelve or thirteen. Her profile reminds me of Rosario, and my stomach crunches down to about the size of a walnut.

Kaile can't hide the shimmer of hope when I join them at the table. "Anything?"

I shake my head. "She didn't even squeak. It was like she couldn't hear me at all."

Kaile looks away. Talon just shakes his head. He expected this, I'm sure. "I'm sorry you came out here for nothing, Dr. Carter."

"It's no problem," I reply, more for Kaile than for the good doctor, but he's already turned away from me.

"I'm afraid she'll have to be transferred out of here soon. Somewhere she'll be safe. We need the room, Detective, she can't be kept here indefinitely."

"I know that." Kaile's voice is rough, almost inaudible. "A few more days. That's all I ask."

"The DA's office—"

"Friday, Dr. Talon. That's all I ask. You can give me until Friday, surely."

Talon wavers. His eyes flicker over the other patients, resting on the girl playing chess. Then he looks back at Kaile, and nods, slowly. "Friday, Detective. But that's as far as I'm willing to go."

With that, he sweeps away. Kaile sits quite still, as though she's been frozen in carbonite, and when she takes a breath, I'm surprised not to hear her lungs crack. Then she glances over at me. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carter. I seem to have wasted your time."

I shake my head. I don't care about that. "Where will she go?"

Kaile pauses. Then she slips her hand into her pocket. I hear the cigarette case clicking open and shut and open again, in cycles of three. She's thinking hard. After a second or two, she shakes her head. "I don't know."

"She can't go back out onto the street."

"I know that." The cigarette case starts clicking faster, in sixteenth notes rather than halves. "We can't keep her here, either. I don't want to put her into the system, but since we're pretty sure she's under eighteen, that might be our only option."

"What, foster care?"

"That or a halfway house. The other option is a juvenile detention center." She winces at the look on my face. "I don't like it any more than you do, Dr. Carter, but if she keeps her mouth shut we don't have many more options. If I could take her in I would, but I wouldn't be able to watch her and besides, I don't want to compromise our case in court…if it even comes to that."

A particularly forbidding look flashes across her face at that thought. I don't have anything to say to that. I've done more than enough complaining about the United States court system over the years, after all. It's not as though it's flawless. In fact, one might call it the opposite. But still, I keep my mouth shut, and watch Kaile quietly until she stands and says, "I'll take you back to the station. Unless you have somewhere else you need to go?"

"Nah. Station's fine."

We head back down the hall. Most of the patients are still stuck in their rooms, some talking to nothing, some lying back on their beds, some arguing with nurses, some smiling and waving at us as we pass. In room 474, Rosa Gonzalez is still staring out the window, but her hand is making slow, soothing circles over the bump in her stomach. I turn away. Kaile catches my eye. "Something wrong?"

"No," I say, but I turn back to look at the door as we step into the elevator. Even as the doors close and I shut my eyes, breathing steadily to keep my heart from breaking through my ribs, the image stays with me. And this time, I know why.

She looked like Mayday.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

There we go, new chapter! I'm not sure how much I like this one. :/

I'll have more soon!


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